The red-haired woman nodded and bowed her head. “Lord, I forgive Cray Bishoff. I forgive him for leaving me alone and . . . for selling me to Opal.”
She shuddered then, and her shoulders shook. “I forgive him, Lord, as you have forgiven me in Christ. I let go of the hate I have held toward him. Father, please set me free in every part of my life so that I can glorify you with every part of my being.”
“Amen,” Rose murmured.
~~**~~
Chapter 8
In the time remaining before Tabitha left for school, Rose and Tabitha met together one or two days a week to go over the growing manuscript. Sometimes their sessions lasted only an hour, after which Rose would, carefully and prayerfully, write out what Tabitha had shared.
Other days they would meet for a longer session, talking over what Tabitha had recounted until Rose had a better grasp of the details—and a better sense of how the Lord would have her write what Tabitha had revealed.
It was important to them both that Tabitha’s testimony reflect the grace that God extended to her, that it demonstrate the healing power of the Gospel.
Two weeks before Tabitha’s scheduled departure for her next term in Boulder, Rose closeted herself in her bedroom to work exclusively on Tabitha’s account. She delegated her other responsibilities to Breona or Tabitha.
Just before Tabitha was to leave, Rose offered Tabitha a portfolio. “I have completed the draft of your testimony, Tabitha. I am certain that it is not quite perfect yet, but it is close. Will you read it before you leave and give me permission to write out three copies and have them bound?”
Tabitha stared at the notebook but did not lift her hand to take it. “I do not think I need to read it, Miss Rose. I trust you. We have discussed all the details, and I pray the final product will be all we wish it to be.”
Rose tapped the portfolio with an absentminded finger. “Would you allow me to show it to Joy? And perhaps Sarah? I am considering asking Sarah to be the next to write her testimony.”
“Of course but . . . perhaps after I leave?”
“As you wish, my dear,” Rose replied. She hesitated, and Tabitha sensed her indecision.
“What is it?” Tabitha asked.
Rose smiled. “I was just wondering about something, but perhaps we’ll speak of it later. You have already overstretched your emotions these many weeks by revisiting the events of your past.”
Tabitha blinked. “I know God has forgiven me and he will sustain me. I would rather know what it is you are wondering.”
Rose took Tabitha’s hand and cradled it in both of hers. “As a mother, I could not help but wonder about your parents, if perhaps they would not want to know that you are alive and doing well.” She gazed into Tabitha’s face, seeking her response.
Tabitha looked down to hide her sorrow and regret from Rose. “I would not want my folks to know all this.” She gestured toward the notebook and its precious but painful contents.
“You know that Mei-Xing felt the same way about her parents? Yes, the truth hurt them for a time, but . . . but in the end, what Jesus did for Mei-Xing made her past of no consequence to her mother and father. Mei-Xing’s relationship with her parents was restored, and God received the glory.”
When Tabitha did not answer, Rose asked, “Do your mother and father know Jesus the way you have come to know him?”
Tabitha’s head jerked as though she had suddenly realized something significant. “I had not thought of that,” she confessed. “I know my mother tried to show me right from wrong, but we never went to church or read the Bible. I cannot say that she was a Christian. I cannot say that she had a real, a living relationship with Jesus. I-I am certain my father did not.”
She turned her face to Rose’s. “It has been sixteen years since I left home. I do not even know if they are still alive.”
“Would not you rather know if they are alive than continue on without knowing?” Rose studied the young woman, concern written on her brow. “If my daughter were missing, I would long for her every day of my life. I cannot but think that your mother still longs to know that you are alive and safe.”
Rose paused and thought for a moment. “You were only fourteen when you left home. Your parents cannot be too old yet? Surely they are younger than I am?”
Tabitha nodded in agreement, so Rose added, “Perhaps, more importantly, if they are still living, you may have the opportunity to lead them to Christ and an eternity in heaven. However, the longer you wait to be reconciled to them, the greater the odds will be that they have passed on.”
Tabitha’s lips parted as she frowned and thought on what Rose said. “Do you . . . do you really think I should write to them?”
Rose nodded. “Yes, I do. However, you should pray before you start your letter. Let the Holy Spirit lead you as you write.”
“I will,” a sober Tabitha agreed.
By then, everyone in Palmer House knew that Rose and Tabitha had been working on Tabitha’s testimony, although no one had heard the details. Now that the account was close to completion and Tabitha’s departure for school drew near, Breona and Marit had taken it upon themselves to declare a dinner celebration.
At Palmer House, Breona commanded the housekeeping and Marit the kitchen. Even on a good day, the house’s newer girls lived in fear and awe of Breona and Marit and their strict—although generally cheerful—standards.
Marit (who owned to a matchmaker’s heart and wanted everything to be “just right” for the celebration) had schemed to include several guests—certain gentlemen guests—in the festivities. However, with Marit’s baby presumed to be two weeks overdue, the Palmer House cook’s usually sunny disposition was nowhere to be found.
So while Breona and two of the girls of Palmer House undertook the actual work, a very pregnant and notably grumpy Marit directed the cooking and table arrangements from the confines of a kitchen chair.
Even Marit’s husband Billy, home early from work in Joy’s fine furnishings store, jumped to obey his wife’s rapid-fire instructions and commands. At the same time, he kept little Will, their rambunctious three year old, out from underfoot.
“You, Olive!” Marit snapped, “Vatch how you cut those vegetables, ja? All the same size, if you please—as I’ve told you many times now!” and “Vaht are you doing vit that dough, Gracie? Not like that! Must I show you again—”
“Nay, Marit, I’ll be showin’ her,” Breona cut in. “Ye air not t’ be on yer feet.” She wagged a wooden spoon and waved Marit back to the chair.
Marit sank onto the hard kitchen chair with a sigh and a grumble. She eased her swollen feet and ankles upon a stool and sighed again. “Ven vill this little one come? Oh, this baby needs to come soon.”
“Aye, an’ we air all a-prayin’ in earnest for that,” Breona muttered under her breath.
“Amen,” breathed Gracie and Olive at the same time.
“I heard that!” Marit shot back.
Breona, her back to Marit, grinned, and Olive and Gracie bent over their work to hide their smiles.
Alone in the room she shared with another girl, Tabitha prepared paper and pen and then bowed her head. Her heart was troubled at the prospect of writing to her folks, but she knew it needed to be done.
O Lord, she prayed, I will not deny that I am terrified of writing to my mother and father. What if they are already dead? Then I will know that my leaving drove them into an early grave! But Miss Rose is right—I cannot go on without knowing one way or the other, for perhaps they are still longing to know what has become of me.
If they are still alive after all these years, then I must ease their hearts, even if our renewed relationship requires that I tell them of my past. Please help me to know what to say. Please help me to share Jesus with them. She paused and then added, And please do not allow me to hurt them again, Lord.
She remained, head bowed, until her spirit calmed and she felt the peace of the Holy Spirit urge her forward. She picked up the pen and scr
atched,
Dear Mother and Father,
I wanted to write and let you know how I am. I live, at present, in Denver, Colorado, with friends. However, I will be returning to nursing school in Boulder a week from today. I hope to complete my nursing studies a year from this spring.
More than anything, I wish to tell you how sincerely sorry I am for running away from home. My behavior has had many injurious consequences. I take responsibility for them all. I ask for your forgiveness, and I hope you will pardon me for the pain I have caused you.
Please write to me at the address below. I long to know you are both well.
Your daughter,
Tabitha Hale
Tabitha blew on the ink to dry her words and set about addressing an envelope with shaking hands. When the letter was sealed, she fixed a postage stamp to it and walked it downstairs to the outgoing mail. Then she returned to her room to dress for dinner.
Twenty-one Palmer House residents and three guests gathered that evening around the lengthy dinner table. The dining table was actually two well-used tables placed end-to-end to accommodate Palmer House’s large family.
Although the table linens were patched and the place settings a mishmash of three patterns—and although the many chairs around the table were also mismatched, some barely serviceable—the twenty-four souls gathered to break bread together were happy and their conversation lively.
At a nod from Rose, Olive and Gracie (with help from Jenny and Flora, two of the older Palmer House girls) began to serve the dinner.
Marit raised her chin, about to issue some instruction to the girls, but Billy touched her arm.
“Let them be, dearest,” he urged. “You must care for yourself and our baby right now. So rest. Enjoy your dinner and our guests. And let the girls alone. Breona will help if help is needed.” Marit sat on Billy’s left, and Billy had purposely placed little Will to his right, so that Marit would have nothing to do during the meal except relax.
As the young women served the meal, Mr. Wheatley, the house’s grizzled caretaker—his hair standing straight up in white tufts over his head—told tall tales and teased the girls on either side of him. The girls, in turn, plied him with extra portions and hung on his every word.
Joy shared her day at her shop with her mother. Sarah and Corrine chimed in to add to Joy’s narrative. Nancy, Alice, Flora, and Jane chattered about their workday—Nancy provided child care for a widower teacher and Alice, Flora, and Jane worked as seamstresses in Tory Washington’s Victoria’s House of Fashion.
Mei-Xing, home from her companion position with Mrs. Palmer, tended to her daughter, Shan-Rose, who was seated between Mei-Xing and her fiancé, Minister Yaochuan Min Liáng.
Breona found herself seated next to Isaac Carmichael, co-pastor with Minister Liáng of Denver’s Calvary Temple. Breona alternately blushed and glared at Marit for arranging the seating so. Pastor Carmichael, on his part, was delighted with the seating arrangements and grinned his thanks in Marit’s direction.
That left Tabitha seated between Pastor Carmichael and the final guest, Mason Carpenter. Tabitha, too, glared at Marit.
“Aw, please stop shooting those killing looks at Mrs. Evans, Tabs,” Mason urged her. Tabitha knew that he was teasing her, and she bit her lip, so as not to smile. The truth was, Mason Carpenter—as one of the house’s greatest supporters—dined frequently at Palmer House. Not to mention that he called regularly to speak to Tabitha.
“Tell me about your day?”
“Oh!” Tabitha’s exclamation slipped out before she had a chance to squash it.
“Something eventful, then?” he queried.
Tabitha, thinking on the letter she had just written, blushed.
Mason frowned. “I apologize, Miss Tabitha. I should not have pried. If you would rather, perhaps we could speak of your return to school? Have you made your plans?”
“Yes. I leave on the noon train next Thursday.” Tabitha was relieved and mentally gave Carpenter points for his kind tact. She studied him out of the corner of her eye.
She assumed him to be in his late thirties, making him a little “old” to still be a bachelor—and an eligible one at that. Tabitha did not know how much money Mason Carpenter had to his name, but he lived the life of a gentleman at ease and was generous to many charities.
Tabitha noted that his thick hair was a little long. A brown lock curled down on his forehead. Every once in a while he swept it away with his left hand, the gesture totally unconscious. Then she realized he was speaking.
“I beg your pardon?”
He smiled. “It would be interesting to know where your thoughts wandered just now.” He cleared his throat. “But I was merely inquiring as to whether you had arranged conveyance to the station for your journey.”
“I, um, no, not as yet. I assumed that Billy—”
“Billy said he would be grateful if I could arrange your conveyance,” Carpenter inserted smoothly. “He will be taking care of young Will while Mrs. Evans recovers from childbirth.” He shot a glance across the table and quirked his brows. “God willing, she does not have to wait much longer.”
“Mr. Carpenter!” Tabitha chastised him for alluding to Marit’s condition, but she had cough to disguise and stifle a giggle.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Hale.” Carpenter’s face assumed penitent lines—all but his twinkling eyes. “So, may I offer my services to you next Thursday?”
“Why, I-I mean, um—”
“Excellent. I would be pleased to call on you at 10:30. I am certain that Banks will be able to load your trunks in a matter of minutes. I should have you to the station no later than 11 a.m. Plenty of time, I should think, to buy your ticket, enjoy a light lunch, and see you to your seat when the train boards.”
Tabitha skewered him with an arch look. “I have not accepted your offer, Mr. Carpenter.”
“My kind offer, Miss Hale,” he returned. “You would not inconvenience Billy when I have so kindly offered, would you?”
“Oh, bother.” Tabitha picked up her fork and stabbed a slice of potato.
“Why, I’ll take that as the gracious acceptance I know it to be.”
Tabitha heard the smirk in his voice, but when she rounded on him he was savoring a bite of roast beef.
“Wonderful. Positively wonderful,” he muttered, all innocence.
Tabitha pursed her lips and glanced across the table. Rose, Joy, and Marit were slipping smug, discreet smiles in her direction.
“Blast them all!” she muttered.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Hale?” Carpenter smirked again.
Tabitha growled and shoved the slice of potato into her mouth.
It was while Olive and Gracie were serving apple pie for dessert that Tabitha noticed the stillness on Marit’s face. Tabitha observed Marit for a moment then turned to agree with Carpenter’s comment on the pie.
“My own cook could take lessons on this pie,” he raved—and shoved another generous forkful into his mouth.
“It is my favorite,” Tabitha agreed. “Marit uses such tart apples but they never spoil the pie. Rather, they—” She was struck again by Marit’s open-eyed stillness.
Carpenter leaned toward her. “What is it?”
Tabitha grinned and whispered back, “I believe the next little Evans will arrive tonight!”
A moment later, Tabitha observed Marit bite her lip and grimace.
“Excuse me, please,” she murmured to Carpenter. Tabitha rose from her seat, as did Carpenter and the other gentlemen in deference to her. She walked around the table and bent toward Marit.
“Shall I help you to your cottage, dear?” Tabitha whispered to her. Marit and Billy’s cottage—once the caretaker’s quarters—was not far from Joy’s little bungalow at the back of Palmer House’s property.
“Oh, ja, please,” was Marit’s relieved response. She gritted her teeth again, and Tabitha waited until she relaxed to help her out of her chair.
“What’s going on?” B
illy demanded. Conversation ceased, and all eyes turned toward Marit and Tabitha.
“Oh, just a baby coming,” Tabitha announced merrily.
Dinner was over.
Many hands reached to help Marit to the little cottage behind Palmer House, and it was Tabitha who gave orders now. “Breona, please have someone make up Marit’s bed with clean linens? Yes; you should oversee them—you know what is needed.”
She turned. “Will you girls heat water in the large kettle and begin clearing up the dinner things? Thank you. Oh, and would someone be so kind as to telephone Doctor Murphy?”
The guests—mostly ignored in the flurry of activity—excused themselves and prepared to depart. Carpenter’s attention, however, was focused on Tabitha. His expression attracted Rose to his side.
“She is quite a capable woman, our Tabitha,” Rose murmured.
“I could not agree more,” Mason Carpenter replied. Pride shone in his eyes.
Tabitha, weary but joyous, delivered the news to Billy in the early hours before dawn. “You have another son,” she announced.
“Another son!” Billy was bursting at the news.
“Yes, and he’s just as plump and pink as a ripe peach!”
“And Marit?”
“She did well. Doctor Murphy says you may go out to see her and the baby in another five minutes.”
Tabitha dropped into her own bed that morning, fatigued but content. “This, Lord, is the joy I would give my life to,” she murmured before sleep took her.
~~~
Tabitha finished packing her small trunk and strapped it closed. “Not ‘trunks,’ Mr. Carpenter,” she muttered. “Only the one.” The lone trunk contained all she owned in the world, but it was enough.
Breona entered. “Mr. Carpenter ist here for ye, Tabitha. Should I be havin’ Banks coome fetch yer trunk?” Her black eyes danced.
“Aye, mooch obliged if ye would be doin’ so,” Tabitha replied, mimicking Breona, laying on the accent.
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