Shenandoah Home (Sinclair Legacy Book 1)

by Sara Mitchell

  Garnet stayed in the hallway with Mrs. Critchley while Sloan and Dr. Hanover conferred over the patient’s bedside. It was very strange, she thought while she waited without speaking beside the anxious woman, whose heavy moon-shaped face was haggard with exhaustion. Throughout the ride from Sinclair Run to the Critchleys’ house on the edge of Tom’s Brook, she had been twitchy with nerves, monosyllabic even with Sloan. He’d finally ceased his efforts to distract her with conversation and simply wrapped a bracing arm around her shoulders.

  When they arrived at the big old frame house, six desperately grateful, desperately ashamed faces waited for them in stilted silence. One by one the younger children—prompted by their mother—mumbled strained thank-yous. Raymond Junior, however, looked her straight in the eye. After thanking her, he grabbed a coat and cap from the hall tree. “I have to work.” He crammed the cap over his white-blond hair. “Right now, I’m the man of the family.” He paused, then added slowly, “But I’m not wanting it to stay that way.”

  “You mind your manners, Ray Bob. This ain’t your say-so.”

  Why . . . they were afraid that she might be bent on vengeance, Garnet realized in dawning amazement. The Critchleys needed her absolution as much as she needed to reconcile the present with the past. With that realization, the knot in her stomach at last began to unravel. Her twitching nerves calmed. And the nebulous peace that had first touched her the day she knelt over a blood-soaked Mr. Critchley drifted back inside.

  Yes, it was strange how God’s grace covered her even when she couldn’t find the words to ask for it.

  “Don’t reckon I can ever repay what you done for my man,” Mrs. Critchley said suddenly. Her fleshy hands twisted in the folds of her apron, and she kept her gaze glued to the closed door. “But I’m grateful for what you did, Miss Sinclair. Particularly when . . . what I mean to say is”—her mouth worked, and her hands crushed the apron—“Raymond’s not a bad man. I got to tell you that. A hard man, some might say, but he’s done the best he could by us. We ain’t never gone hungry, even when the mine closed down all them years back.”

  The mine closed, Sloan had told Garnet and Jacob, after the union brought in thugs to settle grievances between workers and an intractable management. Raymond Critchley had apparently uncovered a plot to blow up the mine, but instead of going to the authorities, Critchley and his gang of cohorts—equally reprehensibly—took matters into their own hands. The rest of the details were sketchy. All Sloan had been able to dig up was that the murdered man was one of the union thugs. Garnet wondered if Mrs. Critchley herself could fill in missing details. But with her husband barely hanging on to life in the next room, she was unwilling to broach the subject.

  Garnet smiled. “Dr. MacAllister’s the one who deserves your thanks.” She smiled. Part of grace, she was learning, was the urge to pass some of it along.

  “I’ve said my piece to the doc. But all the same, he ain’t the one I’m grateful to.”

  The door opened, and Dr. Hanover gestured for them to come in. Garnet went immediately to Sloan, who was waiting at the head of the iron bedstead. His level gaze warned her, but Garnet still barely stifled a shocked gasp. Though she had last seen him injured and helpless, she remembered more vividly the man from her nightmares—a big, robust man with a full beard and iron-gray hair. This Raymond Critchley resembled a corpse, with folds of sagging skin drooping about a gaunt face. His hair was more white than gray, and the beard had been shaved. His hands lay motionless on top of the quilt. Eyes cloudy with pain and medication fluttered open when his wife leaned to speak in his ear.

  “Just a few moments,” Dr. Hanover warned.

  “Got visitors,” Mrs. Critchley spoke, raising her voice. She pulled up a wooden chair and sat, taking his hand and holding it in hers. “ ’Tis Miss Sinclair, and Doc MacAllister, come to see how you’re faring.”

  The cloudy gaze flickered, searched, and found Garnet. His cracked, colorless lips moved. A light breath seemed to shudder from his lungs. “Thought . . . you were an angel,” he whispered.

  “I’m not.” Garnet felt Sloan’s hand on her shoulder, gently squeezing. “I’m glad you’re alive. Your family needs you, so you have to fight to recover your strength.”

  His head moved a little, and a grimace of pain deepened the harsh lines furrowing either side of his nose. “Reckon you came to—” He tried to take another breath, and droplets of sweat formed on his temples and brow.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave,” Dr. Hanover began, but Critchley’s hoarse denial wrung a worried sound from his wife and a scowl from Dr. Hanover.

  Sloan was trying to draw Garnet away, but she covered the hand pulling her shoulder with her own. “We’ll leave as soon as I reassure Mr. Critchley.” She glanced across the bed. “Don’t worry. Your husband is safe. I promise you, Mrs. Critchley, I mean your husband no harm.”

  “But we must know about the other men,” Sloan’s quiet voice intruded, the inflexible iron tone so unusual Garnet swiveled her head to search his face. “Because I need to ensure that my fiancée is safe as well.”

  “Ah.” The deep lines faded marginally, and Mr. Critchley’s cracked lips peeled in the hint of a smile. “Understand . . .”

  “MacAllister, I appreciate what you’re going through, but as a physician, you must know that this man does not need to be talking.”

  “Then stop hindering him.”

  “Dr. Hanover, I believe Mr. Critchley’s recovery will be accomplished more quickly if the two of us can reassure ourselves about a matter,” Garnet said before Sloan’s protectiveness swelled to downright bullying. She held the injured man’s gaze. “I don’t plan to press charges, and neither does Dr. MacAllister. It’s all in the past, Mr. Critchley. Ever since last week, I’ve come to better understand what the Bible means when it counsels us to let the dead bury the dead.”

  She surreptitiously wiped her hands on her skirt. “We shouldn’t live in the past. We definitely can’t undo it. We might even have to pay for mistakes we made. But we can learn from those mistakes and apply those lessons to make the present better. What you do with your conscience is between you and God, Mr. Critchley. Same as me. If you turn yourself in, do it because you know it’s the right thing to do—not because of me. All I need to know—all Dr. MacAllister and I need to know, ” she amended with a quick backward glance—“is whether I’m in any danger from the men who helped you.”

  “No.” Another grimace of pain crossed his face. “God as my witness . . . no.”

  Dr. Hanover strode around to the other side of the bed, checked his patient’s pulse, then patted the back of Mrs. Critchley’s hand. With a silent look of censure he reached for a stoppered bottle of medicine on a bedside table.

  “Two dead—Jack . . . Grubber. Mine cave-in. Four . . . years ago.” He swallowed the spoonful of medicine, and for a few seconds his eyes closed. Then: “Shelley . . . left. Heard couple years ago . . . he was out west. Won’t never . . . come back.” His eyes opened again, fixed on Garnet with feverish intensity. “You’re safe. I’ll . . . turn myself in, when I can.”

  Mrs. Critchley paled, but there was no surprise in the red-rimmed eyes.

  This time, when Dr. Hanover ordered them to leave, Garnet and Sloan obeyed. Sloan murmured a thank-you to the other doctor as they reached the bedroom door. Garnet turned, her hand lifting a farewell wave to Mrs. Critchley. But the woman’s head was bowed, all her attention on her husband.

  The door shut behind them with a quiet click, and Garnet and Sloan descended the stairs in a reflective silence, unbroken even after Sloan joined her in his buggy. It was no longer raining, though the gray day hung cold and wet around them. The only sound was water dripping from the eaves of the roof.

  For a long moment Sloan sat without speaking, his head turned toward the Critchleys’ house. Garnet waited, content to float in the quiet, sunlit pool of God’s enduring peace.

  Then Sloan’s shoulders lifted. He turned to face her. “Now that
we’ve laid your past to rest”—smiling, he cupped her chin in one large hand—“I think it’s time to settle the matter of your future.”

  “Well,” Garnet replied, “I wonder if I need to warn you about my temper . . .”

  “Can’t be worse than mine.”

  Her heart was full because of what shone out of Sloan’s eyes, because of the sunlight filling her up. “Then there’s this lecture tour. I heard that Felicity left four days ago. I suppose I could telegraph her and ask—”

  His mouth covered hers, and Garnet forgot about teasing, forgot about her surroundings . . . forgot about everything but the indescribable joy of being loved by this man.

  A man who looked at her like her father used to look at her mother.

  Part II

  Meredith

  Interlude

  Rain clouds smothered Great North Mountain, tarnishing the late afternoon sky. His gaze indulgent, Jacob stood on the side porch, flat cap pushed to the back of his head, elbows propped up on the railing. A good autumn soaker, he thought as he savored the cedar-rich moistness of the air. That’s what the valley needed to fill the runs and ponds again.

  He glanced down, where the second heartwood chest—this one Meredith’s—sat at his feet, waiting for him to clean it up and restore its luster. Since moving away, she brought it back home every couple of months, on his request. As Jacob feared, once again the chest was covered with dust, the wood dry. Ah, Merry-go-round . . . so busy chasing after life she hadn’t learned how to live it.

  Jacob’s mouth quirked in a rueful smile. His eldest daughter’s project was Garnet’s wedding, the end of October. Meredith does have the energy of the sun, doesn’t she, Lord? Unlike her father at the moment. He ought to be about his own work, not dreaming up on the porch.

  “ ’Tis my favorite spot in all the world,” Mary used to say. Jacob straightened, resettled his cap. Mary, God rest her blessed soul, would have scolded him for sure, dawdling out here like a blatherskite.

  The fragrance of fresh-from-the-oven bread drifted to the porch, tweaking his nose. Jacob’s mouth began to water. When she wasn’t wandering or drawing, Garnet was almost as dab a hand in the kitchen as Leah. And his Leah was the best cook ’twixt Winchester and Lexington, no matter that his youngest’s heart was set on schooling and had been since she was old enough to scribble on a slate.

  Jacob chuckled suddenly. He wondered how long it would be before Meredith decided that she needed to go to college. His eldest did want to be the best at everything. That competitive streak, along with her impetuous nature, tended to fling her into trouble. Like the time his soft heart and her misguided stubbornness landed him near death’s door because she’d been that determined to have things her own way, no matter what her sisters—or her father—wanted or needed. She never meant to cause hurt—he well remembered that her desire had been to please her papa. Of course, for Meredith, if it was convenient to please herself at the same time, so much the better.

  It had been while he was recovering from a bout with the ulcer, he remembered, that he’d settled on the special object to place in Meredith’s heirloom chest. Shoulders propped against the corner column, his thoughts drifted again, back a score of years . . . no. She was, heaven help him, she was twenty-three now, well into spinsterhood. She’d been about nine then, already headstrong, determined as the oldest daughter to replace Mary in spite of her tender years.

  All three girls had been baking that day, and like today it had been a damp autumn afternoon. But it hadn’t been bread—it had been gingerbread . . .

  . . . cookies. Tension began to coil inside. So that’s what had been keeping the girls out of his hair this gray September day.

  Ah yes. His girls—they’d grown so fast. Great heaven above, Meredith was nine her last birthday, and Garnet not far behind. Even Leah at age six was losing the last of her baby fat. And they worked so hard to please him, all of them trying to make up for the loss of their mother, his wife.

  Resolutely ignoring his worry over the gingerbread, he headed for his workshop.

  An hour later high-pitched yells from inside the house interrupted his work, and Jacob clicked his tongue as he laid the chisel aside. What would they be fighting over now, the wee gilpeys? He swiped his hands on the stained apron, then stepped outside his workshop and whistled, an ear-piercing shriek audible a quarter-mile away.

  Loud enough to capture even the attention of three quarreling girls.

  As always, Meredith tumbled through the front door first, her pixyish form swathed in one of Mary’s old aprons, her face dusted with flour. “I brought you your favorite cookies!” Hazel eyes dancing, she waved the plate stacked high with gingerbread girls beneath Jacob’s nose.

  “Meredith . . .”

  “I promise, they’re good—lots better than the ones we made over the summer.” She plucked the top cookie and held it poised at his mouth. “They’re good because I measured everything while Garnet stirred.”

  Jacob had to smile. “Ah. And Leah?”

  “She’s cleaning up. She hates a mess.” Meredith shrugged. “Hurry and take a bite, Papa! I left a batch in the oven but Leah might forget, and Garnet’s mad at me so she might let them burn on purpose.”

  “Slow down, Merry-go-round.” Stalling, he tried for a stern look. “And why would Garnet be mad at you, hmm?”

  She planted flour-coated fists on her matchstick waist, and gave Jacob one of her all-right-but-only-because-I-choose-to-answer glares. “Garnet says you’d rather have Powhatan Rolls. Leah wants both—well, I know she really wants cookies but Garnet says that doesn’t count ’cause Leah’s only six, so—”

  She paused for breath, and Jacob laid his index finger across the rosebud lips. “You know Doc Porter warned me about my sweet tooth, the last time I had that bad tummy ache?”

  Round green-gold eyes shimmered with uncertainty. “Dr. Porter said it was diz—dizpeppery—I heard him.”

  “Listening at the door again, were you?”

  The tears slid down her flour-dusted cheeks. An easy weeper was his Meredith. “It was open.” She threw herself into his arms. “They’re your gingerbread cookies, with the special cookie cutter, the one Mama always—”

  Jacob kissed the uneven part in her hair, hugged her tight. “I know . . . I know. Your mama used to treat that cookie cutter like it was made of silver instead of tin, didn’t she?”

  “I was careful. I treated it like it was silver too.”

  “Ah.” He knelt down. “The proper name,” he said, holding her spiky-lashed, defiant gaze, “is dyspepsia. Diz-pep-see-ah. Tonight after supper you will learn to spell it, and next week when we go to town we’ll stop by Doc Porter’s, and you will learn what it means.”

  “I already know.”

  “And you were making gingerbread cookies anyway?”

  “They’re your favorite. I wanted to do something for you.”

  Sighing, Jacob cupped the flushed cheeks, holding her still. “For me—or for you?”

  “Garnet and Leah would have—”

  “For me—or for you, Meredith Margaret Sinclair?”

  She stiffened, and her mouth quivered. Thick black eyelashes fluttered down in a futile attempt to hide. “I wanted to make you some cookies,” she whispered again, more tears slipping over.

  Jacob shook his head, studying his oldest child. “Someday,” he replied after a long time, “I’m afraid life is going to teach you a painful lesson, Merry-go-round. That stubborn heart of yours is going to end up bruised and battered, I’m thinking. But I want you to remember this.”

  He stopped, waiting until his eldest daughter looked at him. Jacob touched his lips to her forehead and her damp cheeks, then rubbed noses—the family’s unspoken signal of love. “Remember that me and the Lord . . . well, we’ll always love you, no matter what. You’ll never be able to outstubborn either one of us.”

  Ah yes, Jacob thought now, a bittersweet smile touching the corners of his mouth. That was when he knew
what would go into the secret drawer of Meredith’s heirloom chest, and he prayed that someday she would understand.

  Thirty

  Winchester, Virginia

  February 1890

  Meredith steamed into the lobby, her footsteps marching in a drumroll across the parquet floor. Oblivious to the startled looks and puzzled good-mornings from the hotel staff, she banged her way through the door that led to the back, shoved open the second set of doors, stalked across the thick carpet to Mr. Walker’s office, and pounded on the door.

  “Come in, before you knock it down.”

  She was in no mood for Benjamin Walker’s unruffled sense of humor. “Have you seen the letter to the editor in this week’s edition of the Winchester Leader? ” She slammed the rolled-up paper onto the desk in front of him. “That—that fiend Mr. Clarke called you an unprincipled carpetbagger. He accuses you, and by inference anyone under your employ, of—wait. I’ll read it.”

  She stalked around the desk. “Right here. ‘ . . . of bleeding our struggling economy from local citizens until they’ve either expired or have themselves been trapped into employment by the nefarious’—nefarious!—‘Benjamin Walker.’ ” She glared. Her insides felt as though two tomcats were clawing each other in uncontrollable fury. “What are we going to do about it?”

  “Well, I suppose my great-grandfather would have challenged Mr. J. Preston Clarke to a duel. Unfortunately those pistols—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! This—”

  “—were stolen back in ’63. There’s also the minor technicality that dueling is against the law.”

  “—is a gross insult, a-an underhanded pack of drivel designed to turn people against you so you won’t be able to build the springs resort you’ve been planning for a year. A year!”

  “Miss Sinclair—”

  “Besides which, it’s full of lies. You can’t be a carpetbagger. Mrs. Biggs told me you were from Richmond. Your father fought with General Lee himself.”