Shenandoah Home (Sinclair Legacy Book 1)

by Sara Mitchell

  It was no use. Her throat closed, her brain refused to cooperate with her emotions. How was it possible to be so aware of God’s Presence while at the same time be so full of heartache? Of confusion.

  One of Benjamin’s crutches fell clattering to the floor. His arm wrapped around her shoulders. “We’ll get through, Merry-my-love.” A gentle kiss warmed her temple. “I’ll hold on to you. And you”—he staggered slightly, and Meredith tightened her own hold until her arms ached—“hold on to me. That way neither of us will fall. And together we’ll try to both take hold as well of some of those . . . pieces of God.”

  Fifty-Two

  Dearest Merry-my-love,

  Words are hopelessly inadequate to convey how much I miss you. Although it’s only been four days since we parted, it feels like four years. All that keeps me going is the assurance of your love for me—and God’s love for us both. That blessed assurance and something that happened today, something that for me will provide precisely the distraction I need to survive these coming weeks. As I write these words I am smiling because, my love, I am not going to tell you the nature of this distraction. Not yet. I will tell you only that miracles of all sorts still occur in our lives.

  Well. Perhaps instead of waxing like a lovelorn suitor (or more accurately—a lonely husband-to-be . . . ) I should apprise you of the circumstances. I know you think you should be here, but in spite of missing you desperately I am relieved that you’re not. Eighteen-hour days . . . all of them blurring together until the only way I know whether or not it’s day or night is to look up at the sky.

  Stop fretting. Remember that we vowed to be as honest in our letters as we would be if we were together, because the mental closeness renders our physical separation less incapacitating (though your letter of yesterday concerned me deeply). I wish you would weep with the easy frequency of your past. Don’t allow this present loneliness to deprive you of a segment of your nature that I love every bit as much as I do the rest. And try not to be hurt by your sister Leah’s inability to fathom your moods. She is after all still very young. I am sorry however that she has accepted the invitation to return to Mary Baldwin early to train as a teaching assistant. I know in spite of your differences that you will miss her.

  But God willing, in a short span of weeks you and I will be together again, this time forever. Focus on the hope of the future, love, which will arrive sooner than you realize.

  Enough lecturing, hmm? Normally I try to restrain myself, as I know how it annoys you. However, it is a little past one o’clock in the morning so I am exhausted physically (though, reference my first paragraph, exalted spiritually), tired enough that as you see not only am I rambling, I’m having trouble holding this pen correctly (forgive the blobs of ink, by the way). But like you, writing these letters keeps me sane, because no matter how bleary-eyed I might be, when I’m writing them I always feel closer to you. I can close my eyes right now and see you. When you read this letter, unless it’s raining you’ll be sitting in “our spot” beneath the shade of that tree under your bedroom window, in one of the two chairs we carried there last week. You shared the story of the lightning . . .

  By the way, did I tell you that I had a talk with your father that last evening while you were helping Mrs. Willowby wash the supper dishes, about starting up a subcontracting business of sorts? He provides a prototype—like those lawn chairs—and I’ll scour the countryside for skilled craftsmen in need of extra income. One day, love, your father’s chairs will grace the porches and lawns of all my hotels.

  I have a few other plans for him as well. But I digress. I was—now that I’ve glanced back at what I wrote—going to apprise you of what’s happened here. You might be able to perceive that I’m stalling.

  Yes, Meredith smiled up into the thick branches of the scarlet maple, she could see that he was stalling. Over the past ten minutes he had tantalized her curiosity, teased her temper, and tugged at her emotions—but she knew he’d been stalling. Her gaze dropped back to the letter. An audible gasp startled a pair of noisy purple finches.

  . . . when I left the lawyer’s office and J. Preston Clarke was waiting. He offered his condolences, his relief at the loss of “so few lives.” He also made a point of informing me that he was on his way to France for an extended stay. I’d planned to have Hominy check on Mr. Clarke, of course, when there was time. But my mama didn’t raise up a fool. If Preston had a part in the fire, I doubt we’ll ever know it. He’s been contacting guests behind my back, you see, and inviting them to spend the rest of their stay—gratis—at a hotel in Front Royal he recently purchased. In front of many witnesses, he proclaimed himself to be at my disposal, for any assistance. As Hominy and I discussed it later, it’s evident that suggesting a police investigation of Preston Clarke would do nothing but invite trouble. Since I’ve enough of that already, as you have advised I have determined to forget what is past. Truthfully, I no longer care who or what caused the fire. When all is said and done, I was spared the loss of the most important part of my life—you. And I want to focus my energies on our future.

  And our future, my love, will not be here in Winchester.

  Meredith wasn’t surprised. Lonely as she was without Benjamin, she faced the fact that she had dreaded returning to Winchester and a host of painful memories. Part of her might chafe at agreeing to spend the next few months preparing for the wedding instead of remaining at Benjamin’s side, but she was shamefully relieved to be spared the logistical nightmare of the fire’s aftermath.

  She dropped the letter in her lap and tapped her fingers together for a moment. She would have stayed regardless, yielded to the pleas of the beleaguered hotel staff who relied on her organizational skills. But Benjamin’s attention would have been divided. He loved her, and he needed her. He would, Meredith knew, have come to rely on her, possibly more than he should at this particular time. Benjamin needed to recover his self-confidence. And both of them needed to nurture their growing relationship with the Lord, independent of their relationship with each other. Their marriage ultimately would be the stronger for this painful time apart.

  Though they had vowed complete honesty, she had nonetheless refrained from confessing these sentiments to Benjamin. Instinctively she sensed it was something that was better known yet unacknowledged. For Meredith that jammed hotel door was turning out to function as a symbol of the gift of sacrificial silence. When honesty was used merely to relieve one’s private guilt, it became selfishness.

  Is this another facet of love, Lord? Learning the difference?

  The delicious prickling affirmation spread through her like a benediction. Meredith’s fingers stilled, and with a contented hum she picked the letter up again.

  “Meredith?”

  She waved to her father, perched on the seat of the wagon out in the front yard. “You off to Woodstock?”

  “Aye. How’s the lad?”

  “He’s holding his own, Papa. Just as you said. But he isn’t going to rebuild the Excelsior.”

  “Well, now, that doesn’t surprise me. We talked, don’t you know, the two nights he stayed here when he brought you home. He’s a rain barrel full of plans and dreams, for that mineral springs resort he means to build with Mr. Beringer.” He pushed back the brim of his cap. Even from across the patch of drying summer grass that separated them, Meredith detected the assessment gleaming in her father’s eyes. “Has he told you that he’s pestering me to help design the buildings?”

  There was a funny tickle in the back of her throat. “I think,” she replied when she knew her voice would be steady, “that he was working his way around to it. It’s a wonderful idea, Papa. And so like Benjamin.”

  “Aye. The Lord’s blessed you with a good man, lass. Just like He provided Sloan for Garnet. ’Tis enough to make one shout for joy.” He jiggled the reins, and the wagon rolled forward. “Which I just might do along the road to Woodstock. And while I’m about it, I just might be after reminding Him that I’ve one more daughter . . .
”

  On a mild afternoon the second week of October, Benjamin returned to Sinclair Run.

  Meredith had been up since dawn. Nerves jumpy as six cats in a roomful of rocking chairs, she’d driven her father to hide in his workshop, and Mrs. Willowby had escaped to do the weekly shopping at Cooper’s. But the silence of an empty house soon drove Meredith herself outside. It was a glorious autumn day bursting with color, so why not wait for Benjamin on the porch?

  She donned an apron to spare her new forest-green morning gown, chosen because Benjamin loved the color, and spent an energetic hour sweeping the wide plank floor and clipping dead blooms from the baskets of fall chrysanthemums Garnet had brought over two weeks earlier. She read two back issues of American Monthly and Harper’s. Sat for endless moments gazing first at the sunlight sparkling off the diamond in her betrothal ring then down the tree-lined lane.

  At a little past two, she decided that waiting was torturous, so she would simply walk along the road until Benjamin’s carriage—

  Rolled into view, Hominy’s face gleaming in the sunshine like a crow’s wing. He shifted the reins to one hand and waved.

  Without warning, a massive ball of uncertainty swirled in Meredith’s chest. Cotton-mouthed, heart slamming against her ribs, she stood at the top of the porch. Her feet refused to budge. Her eyes refused to blink, her breath remained wedged in her throat.

  The carriage rolled to a halt. Hominy leaped down and opened the door. Benjamin descended, his gaze fixed on Meredith. She’d forgotten the intensity of those deep blue eyes, forgotten how tall he was, the breadth of his shoulders. The crutches were gone, his ankle healed.

  He took two steps toward her and stopped. Slowly he lifted his hand. “What are you afraid of? I love you, and this time when I leave, you’ll be coming with me.”

  “I wasn’t afraid.” Ah, but she hadn’t forgotten the smoothness of his voice, the lazy drawl that turned her locked knees to water. Her own voice emerged in a wispy croak. She cleared her throat, lifting her chin. “I love you. And this time, when you leave, I wasn’t going to give you the choice of leaving alone.”

  Benjamin threw back his head in a booming laugh. By the time Meredith flew down the steps, he was waiting for her, his arms lifting her high off the ground, twirling her completely around.

  “Reckon I’ll go water the horses,” Hominy said cheerfully behind them. “Say hello to Mr. Sinclair who’s over yonder being tactful.”

  Neither Meredith nor Benjamin responded. Her hands wrapped around the back of his neck as he lowered his head.

  “I have something for you,” he murmured a long time later, the words not quite steady. “Close your eyes.”

  “I don’t want to close my eyes. I’ve been starved for the sight of you for two months. I don’t want you out of my sight for two min—”

  He kissed her again, a devastatingly tender kiss. “I’m nervous,” he told her and gave her a sheepish smile. “And you only have to keep them closed for fifteen seconds. Your surprise is inside the carriage, but it isn’t wrapped.”

  What on earth? Meredith covered her face with her hands. “There. But I’m counting. One, two, three . . .”

  He returned before she reached “twelve” and, in an increasingly nervous voice, ordered her to open her eyes. When Meredith complied, all she could do was to stare. Finally, as though in a dream, she lifted her hand toward the small wooden chest Benjamin was holding out to her.

  “It’s . . .” She swallowed hard and tried again. “It’s a-a jewelry chest?”

  “Not quite.” His fingers trembled a little as they stroked over the crudely finished surface. “I made it. You might, ah, see that I’m not the craftsman your father is. But I—”

  “You made me a new heartwood chest.” Her eyes swimming, she lifted it from Benjamin’s hands and hugged it. “Benjamin, you made a new heartwood chest for me.”

  “Open it, love. There’s no secret drawer—I sort of thought one wasn’t necessary.”

  Meredith fumbled with the crooked brass clasp, her gaze never leaving Benjamin’s. He stood there, big and fit as the well-muscled horses Hominy was leading toward the barn, yet shining out of his rugged face was the anxiety—and the anticipation—of that small boy. She had never loved him more, until she lifted the lid to her new heartwood chest.

  Misshapen and darker in color now but recognizable all the same, her mother’s gingerbread girl cookie cutter lay nestled in the middle of a clumsily attached blue satin-lined bed.

  “I searched for it,” Benjamin said. “Everyone told me it was no use. But I had to try. Had to hang on to the hope. I don’t know how it survived the heat.”

  He stopped. “I probably wouldn’t have found it, if I hadn’t been on the crutches. I’d been crawling, you see—digging in the area where my office had been. The handle of one of the crutches caught on something. When I yanked it free, the cookie cutter tumbled out of a pile of ash and debris.”

  Tears flowed unchecked as Meredith lifted the cookie cutter out and cradled it in her palm. “You never know,” she managed after a while in a voice thick with emotion, “what God’s going to provide when you hang on to hope and keep trying.”

  Benjamin gently removed the cookie cutter, set it back in the chest, then laid the chest on the ground. His own eyes were wet. “It will make an interesting heirloom, won’t it? I was thinking though, that between now and our wedding your father might be willing to help me make you a new heartwood chest.”

  Meredith reached up to press a kiss against his warm mouth. “Don’t be ridiculous. I love this one, almost as much as I love the man who made it for me.” With a resigned grin she accepted the handkerchief Benjamin gave her. “Yes. It’s a relief to learn that I’m still a watering pot. Now”—she thrust the damp cloth away, picked up the chest, and grabbed Benjamin’s hand—“let’s go show Papa and give him the chance to welcome home his new son-in-law-to-be.”

  “Home . . .” Benjamin said. His fingers gripped hers. “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  Hand in hand they strolled across the yard.

  The following is an excerpt from Sara Mitchell’s

  Virginia Autumn

  Book 2 in the Sinclair Legacy series

  His gaze dropped to her ringless left hand, then returned to her face. She resembled her two sisters neither in looks nor personality. What had it been like for her, he wondered, growing up in Meredith’s and Garnet’s shadow? “You’re a teacher now, I believe?”

  Unattractive red stained the bridge of her nose and forehead, while the rest of her complexion paled. “Yes. And I’ll save you further speculations by stating that I am not, and have never been, married.” She hesitated. “I apologize for more or less accusing you of collusion. For some reason Meredith refuses to accept my circumstances, and I’m afraid I made an erroneous assumption.” A flicker of humor brightened eyes the color of bitter chocolate. “I seem to remember having to apologize to you the very first time we met.”

  “You were tired that day,” Cade murmured. “Yes, I do remember. You’re tired now, aren’t you?”

  “Of course not, I have excellent stamina. I—”

  “I wasn’t referring to physical fatigue.” He leaned forward to maintain an aura of privacy in the depot’s crowded waiting room. “I think you’re tired on every other level of your being. Mental, emotional—and spiritual. Why don’t we talk about it, while we wait for the train.” Hands relaxed on his knees, he kept his voice soft, nonthreatening, as if he were gentling a suspicious wild animal. “It’s been a long time, but I think we can consider each other old friends, don’t you?”

  “You’re impertinent, Mr. Beringer.”

  “Yes, I admit it . . . Leah. But I’m also interested.”

  And he was, somewhat to his surprise. Intrigued by this touchy little martinet whose manner failed to disguise a deep loneliness Cade had sensed from all the way across the room. “Besides, the least I can do since we’re headed to the same place”—he
hid a smile when she all but gnashed her teeth at him—“is to ensure that you arrive safely.”

  “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself. Furthermore, I’m not inclined to engage in either casual or intimate conversation with you, regardless of our past association.”

  “I’ve a notion you’re used to taking care not only of yourself, but everyone else around you. No wonder you’re weary.” He shifted back, noting the slight relaxation of her shoulders. “I promise to be a good traveling companion. If you don’t feel like talking about yourself, we can talk about Ben and Meredith. We have an hour before our train arrives. And—we have the rest of the summer.”

  Each motion precise, Leah picked up her gloves, tucked them inside her hat, and rose to her feet. “I’d rather eat a bucketful of mud.” She grabbed her bag, then stalked across the floor, and disappeared outside.

  Cade laced his hands around one upraised knee. Looked to be an interesting journey from this point. You’ll have to help out a bit, Lord. I’m not quite sure yet what my role is supposed to be here.

  But it certainly didn’t look like it was destined to be that of confidant.

  Sara Mitchell

  One of the earliest fiction authors in the inspirational market, Sara Mitchell is a best-selling, critically acclaimed author of seventeen novels. Her historical Shenandoah Home earned a Romantic Times Top Pick 4½ star Phenomenal rating; the sequel Virginia Autumn was a 2003 Christy finalist and winner of the RWA Georgia Romance Writers’ Maggie Award of Excellence in the Historical Category; and her Steeple Hill historical Legacy of Secrets won the 2008 RT Reviewers’ Choice Award in the Love Inspired Historical category. Whether genre inspirational romance, historical fiction, or complex historical suspense, Sara Mitchell’s books have touched the lives of readers all over the world. Her hallmark traits include exhaustive research, a command of language, and characters with emotional depth. Her early contemporary titles are set in locales all over the United States; her historicals all take place in 1890s America. Visit her website SaraMitchellBooks.com to view archival photographs of settings in her Harlequin Love Inspired Historical novels.