Love's First Bloom

by Delia Parr

  At the sound of footsteps, she turned and saw Phanaby standing at the bottom of the staircase, holding Lily’s hand. Noting the bonnets they were wearing, she managed a bit of a smile. “Are you going out?”

  Lily broke free and toddled over to her. “Come,” she cried and tugged at Ruth’s skirts.

  “The storeroom can wait. Do come with us,” Phanaby urged as she walked toward her. “A few of the ladies are cleaning the church today to get ready for tomorrow’s services, and they never turn away an extra pair of hands.”

  Ruth rested the broom handle against the edge of a shelf and lifted Lily up for a kiss before setting her back down again. Surprised by Phanaby’s suggestion, she frowned. “Do you really think it’s a good idea for me to go out today?”

  “I doubt that reporter is up and out of his sickbed, let alone at the church.”

  Ruth moistened her lips and tasted the dust she had stirred up in the storeroom. “I think it would be best I finish up here, but if you’d rather not take Lily with you, I can keep her here with me.”

  Phanaby glanced at all the litter on the floor and shook her head. “If I don’t take her with me, she’ll traipse through everything you sweep up and it’ll take you twice as long to finish.”

  “So true,” Ruth admitted, then scrunched down and planted another kiss on Lily’s forehead. “By the time you come back, I’ll be all done and we can make cookies together. Would you like that?”

  Grinning, Lily clapped her hands, and she did not complain when Phanaby took her hand and led her toward the back door.

  Grateful that Phanaby did not argue the point and insist that she accompany them, Ruth turned and picked up the broom again.

  “Ruth?”

  She turned and saw Phanaby standing at the back door.

  “Sooner or later, you’re going to have to go out again, Ruth. You haven’t even gone back to your garden.”

  “Yes, I know, it’s just …”

  “You’ll need your shawl for services tomorrow,” she prompted. “Perhaps you can slip out to your garden tomorrow morning since you left it there.”

  “I’ll try,” Ruth offered, annoyed that she still had not retrieved the shawl she had left behind weeks ago.

  “Just be sure to be back in time for services. It’s the last time we’ll have them for a few months since Reverend Haines is leaving to ride circuit on Monday. Which reminds me: I’ll need to stop at the general store to get something I need for the picnic.”

  “Picnic?”

  Phanaby smiled. “We always have a picnic dinner after services to wish him Godspeed. I mentioned that to you the other day, but it appears as if you’ve forgotten.”

  Ruth sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid I did,” she replied, uncertain that she should attend services.

  “I wouldn’t worry about that reporter being there, either,” Phanaby said as if reading Ruth’s thoughts. “Based on what Elias told me, the man will be eating nothing but clear broth for the next few days. And, Ruth, you’re not the only one grieving Reverend Livingstone’s passing,” she added gently. “We respected and admired him, too.”

  Ruth dropped her gaze and gulped hard until the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks slipped back to refill the well of grief that seemed endless. “I-I know. I’m … I’m sorry, it’s just that it’s so hard to think that … that I was the very last one he was able to help and that no one here, other than you or Mr. Garner, seems to understand what a good man he was, even though he was proven innocent,” she whispered, repeating the words she had first used to explain why she had been so devastated by the death of a man she could not claim as her father.

  “Not everyone in the village believes what the newspapers print, and we shouldn’t give up hope. Someone as special as he was will step forward to lead Prodigal Daughters and continue Reverend Livingstone’s ministry,” Phanaby said.

  Ruth sniffled twice. The articles in the press that fueled a public clamor demanding to know where she was—and whether or not she was hiding evidence that would have convicted her father—had only gotten worse since his death. She could hardly imagine that the organization he had founded would survive at all, let alone attract the interest of another minister willing to lead it.

  When Ruth looked up, Phanaby was nodding while trying to keep Lily from reaching up to open the back door. “Well, then, I think we’d better be off. Since you didn’t eat much at breakfast again, I set up a plate with some jellied bread for you and left it out, just in case you decided not to come with us. Just be sure to eat it all before Mr. Garner finds it,” she said before she opened the door and hurried the two of them off.

  Ruth had nearly half the floor swept clean when she heard the door to the apothecary open, followed by hurried footsteps and loud voices that competed for attention. Before she could even wonder what all the commotion was about, Mr. Garner poked his head through the curtain. “There’s been a bit of an accident in front of the general store and two men have apparently gotten hurt. With Dr. Woodward sick himself, I think I should at least see if there’s something I can suggest that will help them,” he said. “I don’t expect anyone this afternoon, but could you just listen for the door? I shouldn’t be long.”

  “Go,” she urged, curious as to what kind of accident had occurred.

  He nodded his thanks, and she heard him gathering up a few of his remedies before the front door slammed closed.

  Except for the gentle swoosh of her broom, she was surrounded, once again, by nothing but silence, and for the very first time that she could recall, she was all alone in this humble dwelling. She paused, struck still by the realization that she was now completely and utterly alone in this world. No one in this village, not one single breathing human being, really knew who she was or why she had come here.

  Having a reporter here in the village was a vivid reminder that she needed to make a decision. She could step forward now and reclaim her name, despite the difficulty she’d face trying to prove she had nothing of interest to the authorities or the press. If she did just that, however, how would she explain Lily? Even if she decided to leave the child with the Garners, some reporter would eventually find her and uncover the fact that Rosalie Peale had been Lily’s mother. Could she risk having Lily forever tainted by her mother’s sin? Worse, would the authorities take the child away from her, since she had no rightful claim to her?

  Or should Ruth remain silent and keep the identity she had claimed when she left New York City, to protect the child as well as herself?

  “I’ll hold my peace, for now,” she whispered, but groaned when she heard the apothecary door open. She shoved the broom into the corner and planted a smile on her lips she knew was too tight even before she parted the curtain to greet the customer waiting for her. After stepping into the apothecary, she took one look at the stranger who had entered the shop and braced her hands on the counter for support.

  Dressed in a finely cut suit of clothes that labeled him from the city, the man had a pallid complexion. He appeared to be young, perhaps only a few years older than she was, which surprised her. When he walked toward her very slowly, as if weak or in some sort of discomfort, she realized she was staring at her worst fear in human form. “Mr. Farrell?” she murmured, praying she would be able to hear him confirm his identity over the wild thumping of her heart.

  He paused in front of the counter. “Indeed, I am. Did we perhaps meet yesterday before I took ill?”

  She swallowed hard. “No, we didn’t, but Mr. Garner mentioned he had been called out during the night to tend to a visitor to our village.”

  He groaned, then gripped his stomach with one of his hands. “I suppose I’ve been living in the city for so long that I’d forgotten how easy it is to spot a stranger in a village this small. I’m afraid I couldn’t wait any longer for more of that remedy to be delivered. It helps me to sleep through the pain, which is still quite unbearable. Is Mr. Garner here?”

  “I’m sorry. He’s been called out
for an emergency; otherwise he would have taken this to you by now,” she offered as she turned and found the remedy Mr. Garner had prepared. She set the dark brown bottle on the counter in front of the man. “I hope you’re feeling better soon,” she offered, without adding that she hoped he would be on Monday’s stage when it left.

  He laid several coins on the counter and picked up the bottle. “The sooner I get this stomach of mine back to rights, the happier I’ll be and the quicker I can continue on my journey,” he assured her. He hesitated for a moment before he pulled a small paper out of his vest pocket, unfolded it, and held it out for her to see. “As you no doubt heard, I’m a reporter for the Galaxy newspaper, and I’m looking for this woman. Her name is Ruth Livingstone, although she’s probably using another name. Perhaps you’ve heard of her. Her father was recently acquitted in a rather infamous trial—”

  “I know who she is,” Ruth managed while staring at the sketch he held in his hands.

  “Have you seen her or anyone who resembles her?”

  Ruth tried to keep her heart from leaping out of her chest. No wonder the man had made no progress by talking to the villagers. The woman in the sketch looked nothing like her at all, which she considered fortunate since the woman had a large hooked nose, a decidedly weak chin, and a very abundant bosom. “No. No, I’m sorry. I’m afraid not.”

  He refolded the sketch and slid the paper back into his vest pocket. “There’s no need to be sorry. No one else I’ve talked to in the village has seen her, either, which isn’t surprising. I believe she’s actually living a good twenty miles south of here. Thank you for this,” he said, holding up the remedy, before he turned and promptly left without giving her a second glance.

  With her knees about to buckle from the strain of their encounter, Ruth held onto the counter for dear life until he was outside. Bowing her head, she drew deep gulps of air. After a good five minutes, her heart finally resumed a normal rhythm, only to start racing again when she heard the door open. She looked up and nearly groaned again when a man she had no desire to see, at least at this precise moment, walked into the apothecary.

  Sixteen

  Jake crossed the room and approached the counter that Ruth was holding onto as if it were a lifeline. Her face was uncommonly pale, and she looked at him as if he were the last person she wanted to see.

  His need to pursue his professional goal, however, overrode his concern for her, particularly since he had learned that Robert Farrell had arrived by stagecoach late yesterday afternoon. “You haven’t been to your garden for a good while, and I thought perhaps it was too chilly in the morning to return because you didn’t have your shawl,” he offered and laid it on the counter. “I’m sorry. It seems to have gotten snagged on some bushes when the wind blew it around before I found it.”

  “I can repair it. Thank you for bringing it back to me,” she said.

  “You’re welcome. Are you feeling unwell? Is that why you haven’t been tending your garden?”

  A blush stained her cheeks. “I’ve been feeling rather peaked lately, but I’m just a bit overtired today. Mr. Farrell, that reporter, just left. Did … did you see him?”

  “Reporter?”

  “A Mr. Farrell. From New York City,” she explained. “He’s suffering from some sort of stomach ailment and needed more remedy. I’m surprised you didn’t pass him on your way here.”

  He shrugged, surprised himself to learn that Farrell was out and about. From what he heard earlier this morning, the man was in his sickbed at Burkalow’s. “No, I didn’t see him, although I’ve heard about him. He’s caused quite a stir in the village.”

  She curled her lips. “Indeed. Knowing your fondness for newspapers, I’m surprised you didn’t seek him out to speak to him.”

  He stiffened briefly. “I’m too busy working, trying to earn enough to make my own keep, to spend time gossiping with anyone,” he replied.

  “You’re working again?” she asked.

  “Thanks to the remedy you were kind enough to bring me,” he replied and held out the canvas bag she had used to carry everything to the cabin a few weeks ago. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get to the door before you left. The food was delicious and much appreciated. You needn’t have gone to all that trouble.”

  She blushed and took the bag from his hand. “Indeed, it was little enough to do after the way I acted.”

  He raised a brow. “And how was that?” he asked, hoping to force her to make her apology more specific.

  The blush on her cheeks deepened to the color of overripe strawberries. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t kinder to you. Or more understanding. Once I got home and Mr. Garner told me more about your condition, I realized I had misjudged you. I apologize, and I apologize for Lily, too, for biting you,” she added.

  He smiled. “Apology accepted. I trust your daughter has recovered from her plunge into the river.”

  “She’s quite well, thank you,” she murmured, obviously embarrassed by her daughter’s behavior.

  “Is Mr. Garner about?”

  She shook her head. “He had to leave for a few moments. If you need more of the remedy, I could tell him—”

  “Actually, I was hoping to speak to him about starting that work we discussed.”

  “If you’re referring to replacing the shelves in the storeroom, he said he was going to postpone doing that for another week or two. If you need to wait for him—”

  “No,” he said quickly and arched his back a bit. “I need to finish up some painting for Spinster Wyndam before this back of mine tightens up for good. She’s letting me spend the night in her barn tonight so I won’t have to walk back and forth. I don’t want my back acting up and risk missing services tomorrow. Just tell him I’ll talk to him about it then or at the picnic afterward. Will you be at the picnic with Lily?”

  She moistened her lips and looked down. “I suppose I will, unless … yes, I suppose I will.”

  “Until tomorrow, then,” he promised before taking his leave.

  Heartened by the prospect of seeing her again, he hurried down the side of the apothecary toward the bridge to return to his cabin. He’d forgotten to bring the trousers he planned to wear to services tomorrow. Approaching Main Street, he was half tempted to stop at Burkalow’s just ahead to confront Farrell, but decided to wait until dark when he might be better able to slip up to the man’s room unnoticed.

  Half an hour later, after stopping to help a farmer reload some of the hay that had fallen from his wagon, Jake finally reached his cabin and charged inside, anxious to get back to Spinster Wyndam’s and finish his work for the day.

  “Living a bit rustic these days, aren’t you, Asher? The accommodations at Burkalow’s are much more suitable to my taste.”

  Jake stared at the well-dressed young man sitting on the lone chair in the room and snarled, “You must be Robert Farrell. Do you make it a habit of entering a man’s home without permission?”

  He shrugged. “Your brother sends his regards, though I would venture to add that he’s growing rather impatient with your lack of progress in locating Ruth Livingstone,” he said, ignoring Jake’s question.

  “Obviously,” Jake snapped. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have sent you here.”

  Farrell stood up and dusted off his trousers, as if the chair he had been sitting on was uncommonly dirty. “He sent me out to find Ruth Livingstone, which is exactly what I plan to do once I’ve got this stomach ailment of mine cured.”

  Jake narrowed his gaze. “And just exactly how do you plan to find her?” he demanded, uncertain how much Clifford had shared with the man about what Jake had learned here in Toms River.

  “By following a lead I developed, and by using this,” Farrell said, walking over, albeit a bit painfully, and handing Jake a sketch. “Take a good look. Once you do, I think you’ll have to agree that the pretty young widow living with the Garners bears no resemblance at all to Ruth Livingstone.”

  Infuriated that Clifford had told Farrel
l about his work here and his suspicion that Widow Ruth Malloy and Ruth Livingstone were one and the same woman, Jake quickly studied the sketch. He held back a grin that threatened to undermine his determination to get this young man out of Toms River as quickly as possible. If Farrell was relying on the sketch of this homely woman to identify Ruth Livingstone, Jake had little, if anything to fear from the man.

  “Well?”

  “You’re right. There’s no resemblance at all. Where did you get the sketch?”

  Farrell’s smile was so smug, Jake was tempted to give the man a good swipe in the face. “From a source. A very reliable source, which you no doubt overlooked since you’ve been on an extended holiday for the past two years, hoping your last attempt at reporting, which ended in disaster, would be forgotten. You’re obviously wasting your time here,” he added.

  “Perhaps,” Jake admitted, deliberately fueling the man’s arrogance, and handed the sketch back to him.

  “I’m certain your brother will find that bit of news interesting, to say the least.”

  Jake stiffened. “I keep my brother well-informed, as he does me.”

  “Which is yet another reason why he sent me here.”

  “To speak to me?” Jake asked, growing angrier by the minute with his brother for not trusting him to do his job.

  “Your brother asked me to relay a message to you.”

  Jake balled his hands into fists.

  “Your agreement with your brother has been amended— that is, he’s also turned the assignment to find Ruth Livingstone over to me. To quote him precisely, ‘Get the job done before Farrell does.’ I trust you know exactly what that means in terms of—”

  “Get out,” Jake demanded and pointed to the door. “And when you see my brother again, tell him that I will not discuss any agreements we have with each other with anyone else, especially a hireling. Which is precisely what you are.”

  Farrell shrugged and made his way toward the door. “I’ll stop to see you again on my way back to New York City. If the lead I have is as good as I suspect it is, that won’t be but a matter of a week or two. By then, perhaps you’ll have thought of a proper excuse to give your brother for failing to find Ruth Livingstone—something I’ll have managed to do by then.”