Blessed Assurance (11 page)

“Nothing. Not nearly enough.” His voice came out raspy.

Her fingers went through his hair again. “You hurt tonight. I'm sorry.”

“I don't want you to be sorry.” He pulled her closer. “Don't pity me.”

“I don't. I'm grateful.” She looked up, her emotions and thoughts hopelessly tangled with her sudden attraction to this bedeviling man. “I…I…”

And he kissed her.

Sensation crashed through her. His lips moved over hers igniting sparks throughout her veins. She leaned into him and then breathed in his breath.

Suddenly he pulled away. “What am I thinking?” He swung her up into his arms, carried her through to the parlor and left her on her bed, stunned and horrified at what had happened.
I let Mr. Smith kiss me.

August 30, 1871

Jessie stood in Miss Greenleigh's room, normally so neat. Today it was a riot of clothing and new tissue paper. Like the face of a daisy attracted to the sun, Jessie had been drawn here. Kneeling in front of her trunk, the bride-to-be was carefully folding the multitude
of her underthings: corset-covers in white and pale pink, fine-woven chemises frilled with ruffles and flowered embroidery at their yokes. Jessie suppressed a tiny nip of envy.

“Yes,” Miss Greenleigh replied to Mrs. Bolt, sitting in the only chair, “my fiancé is fifteen years older, but we're in love—”

“You ought to be marrying a man nearer your own age,” Mrs. Bolt interrupted. “You'll end up a young widow.”

“I could die before Matthew.” The young woman continued her careful folding.

Mrs. Bolt shrilled, “Just because you're afraid of being left an old maid—”

Miss Greenleigh didn't look up. “This year I received two proposals.”

The redheaded widow's mouth crimped into a sour pucker. “
Well
, I see that my words of wisdom are wasted here.” Mrs. Bolt rose, brushed past Jessie, and clattered away.

Ill at ease, Jessie turned to leave.

“Please come in and close the door.” Miss Greenleigh beckoned Jessie who complied and sat down, wondering what the pretty blonde had to say.

“Since I will no longer be living here, could we use our given names?”

Jessie smiled. Their relationship as landlady and boarder had made them keep their distance. “I'd like that, Eileene.”

“I wasn't completely truthful with Mrs. Bolt, Jessie.”

Jessie raised her eyebrows.

“This is my
third
proposal in the past twelve months.” A puckish grin enhanced Eileene's radiant face.

“But—”

“I met many gentlemen when I spent weekends with my sister—my matchmaking sister.”

“Perhaps we could hire her for Mrs. Bolt.” Shocked at herself, Jessie clapped her hands over her mouth.

Miss Greenleigh whooped with laughter. “No.” She sat back on her heels. “I wish I could give Mrs. Bolt some ‘wise words 'about her
coy and graceless behavior around Mr. Smith. If she continues the way she is going, she will never marry again.”

Jessie lowered her voice. “I wonder if she was happy in her first marriage. If she had been, perhaps she wouldn't be so overly eager.” Jessie confided, “I can't imagine being married to anyone, but my Will. I hope you and Matthew will be as happy as we were.” The memory of kissing Mr. Smith caused Jessie a twinge.

“I think we will be.” Eileene paused.

With the toe of her shoe, Jessie pensively traced the rose pattern on the small bedside rug. All this talk about marrying highlighted her strained relationship with Mr. Smith. She still couldn't believe she'd let him kiss her on the Fourth of July. “You were right—all of you,” Jessie muttered without planning to.

“About Mr. Smith and the doctor?”

Jessie hung her head.

“May I be honest?”

Jessie tilted her head to the side, assenting.

“It isn't good to raise a lone boy in a household full of females.”

Eileene's softly spoken, but undeniable words dropped like boulders onto Jessie's heart. Gathering her composure, Jessie rose. “I should be in the kitchen, helping Susan. And Eileene, my best to you and Matthew.”

“I'll send you a wedding invitation.”

“Please do.” Jessie clasped hands with Eileene. Deep in thought, Jessie walked down to the kitchen.

“She done packing?” Susan had her hands deep into a batch of bread dough.

“No.”

“She the nicest boarder we had.”

Jessie stepped to Susan's side. “She said Linc shouldn't be raised in a household of women.”

“She right. Why don't you rent her room to Mr. Smith? That's what he come for in the first place.”

“Linc need a man around here.” Wheezing softly as always, Ruby
walked in, her large body shifting from one unsteady foot to the other. “What you mauling, child?”

“Six loaves a bread.”

Jessie's worry dragged her mind away from the kitchen.
Yes, Linc needs a man in his life.
But would Mr. Smith be content to be there for Linc, yet expect nothing from her? In the weeks since they'd kissed, he'd been a pattern card of a gentleman. But there was still something about him that warned her away.
And my heart will always be Will's
.
Then why did I let him kiss me?

After lunch Jessie carried a lapful of mending out onto the shady back porch. In the heat of the afternoon, everyone else napped. Jessie sighed and threaded a needle.

“Jessie?” Her mother whom Jessie hadn't seen in weeks came up the backyard path.

“Mother, how did you ever get away?”

“I had to come and see you. I don't care what Hiram says.”

Heedless of the mending, Jessie stood, welcoming her mother with open arms. For a few moments they clung to each other. Jessie urged her mother into a nearby chair. “I'll get you some tea.”

“No, I can only stay a few moments, but I had to come. I've felt so terrible ever since your last visit.”

Anger drove its claws into Jessie's heart. “Hiram should feel terrible, not you. He's forbidden you to speak to me, hasn't he?”

“Jessie, please. Hiram's a good man. No fire captain in Chicago is as conscientious.”

“No doubt, but he always puts himself up as the judge of the world. I can't forgive the things he said about Will. How your husband had the gall to tell me—in front of Margaret—that a son's duty was to stay home and provide for his widowed mother.”

“It would have been better, for you and Linc, if Will hadn't volunteered—”

“I would
never
have asked Will to avoid the draft the way your husband did.” Jessie's hands fisted.

Esther hung her head.

“I'll never forget that your husband paid a man three hundred dollars to be drafted in his place. I have always wanted to ask Mr. Hiram Huff what it feels like to hire a man to
die
in your place?”

“It does no good to stir up the past—”

Words rushed to Jessie's lips. “I can't hold everything back anymore.”

Jessie stood and began pacing. “I'll never forget the day when he left me—only twelve years old—on this porch. I'd never been so frightened. Mother, why didn't you, at least, come with me?”

“Hiram said I would cry and upset you—”

“Hiram said,”
Jessie parroted. “Mother, why did you ever marry him?”

Twisting her handkerchief, Esther flushed scarlet. “Please.”

“He has continually separated us.”

“No—”

“It's true and you know it.”

Esther stared down at white cotton-gloved hands folded in her lap. “No, he's a hard man, but I never let him use a switch—”

“Words and looks can sting harsher than any switch.”

“Please. If he hadn't been so exhausted and worried about the drought and all the fires, he wouldn't have argued with you—”

“You still choose to defend him.” Jessie clenched her hands. “I will never remarry.”
I'll never kiss Mr. Smith again.
“I will never put Linc through this.”

“Please don't say that. Mr. Smith…Linc loves him so much…I was hoping…”

While her mother rambled tearfully through these phrases, Jessie shook her head. “Since I was three years old, Hiram Huff has cheated me of my mother's love—”

“No.”

“I grew up thinking you didn't love me. Margaret had to explain that you did love me, you just couldn't show it because of my stepfather. Every time I would reach for you, he would step between us, scolding me.”

“But Hiram speaks highly of you now. He was especially pleased
that you didn't rent to men. He says most widows are ‘shameless'—”

“Mother, on his birthday Linc asked me why his step-grandfather didn't like him.”

Esther moaned.

Jessie drew herself up. “You are always welcome here. But if I never see Hiram Huff again, it will be too soon.”

“Jessie,” her mother pleaded, “I know he has wronged you, but you are a Christian. You must forgive.”

Jessie looked away, hardening her heart against the crushed expression on her mother's face. “I can't help how I feel. I won't lie any more.”

Esther rose slowly and left. Feeling close to tears herself, Jessie turned her back and went into the kitchen. She was done with Hiram Huff and with kissing Mr. Smith. Linc came first.

 

In the waning light of sundown, Jessie approached her home, crumpled, downcast. When would the cool, rainy fall days begin? Dry leaves dropped and shattered on the parched brown lawns and dusty wooden streets. The lingering drought and her own futility oppressed her.

As she hastened up her back steps, she tried to put aside the pain of her seventh rejection by a physician. She had been certain this doctor who'd studied for the mission field would say yes. The man's hypocrisy had staggered her. As long as he was miles away, on their soil, he did not mind treating dark “natives.” But not in Chicago.

Voices coming from the kitchen drew her attention. Caleb opened the door for her. “Mrs. Wagstaff, I'm so glad you've finally come home.”

“What is it? You looked worried.”

“My father…his heart….”

Jessie grasped his hands. She didn't want to face this alone. Though she'd kept Dr. Gooden at arm's length since the night of the Palmer dinner, he'd come now.
Wouldn't he?

“The Rev'rend wants you to come,” Susan said, her voice breaking. “We bin waiting for you.”

Lee entered through the kitchen curtain. “Linc's in bed.” When he spotted Jessie, he halted. “Linc and I missed you tonight, Mrs. Wagstaff. Was your mission successful?”

His behaving as if he belonged in her house irritated her. “I don't have time to talk now.”

Lee surveyed the company gathered around Jessie. “Something's wrong.”

“Caleb's father is mortal bad again,” Susan said.

“What are his symptoms?” Lee asked automatically.

“He's experiencing chest pain and can barely breathe.” Caleb's face twisted. “It's worse than last time.”

“Heart failure.” This medical pronouncement slipped out of Lee's mouth before he could prevent it.

“Caleb, go to the doctor's hotel. The Reverend needs him. Susan, let us go quickly,” Jessie urged.

“I'm coming, too,” Lee said in spite of himself.

“You're not…needed.” Caleb glared at him now.

This goaded Lee. “I'm coming anyway.” Jessie objected but he went on: “Mrs. Wagstaff will need an escort home.”

Jessie glared at him, but Lee doubted the good doctor would come and he couldn't let her face the disappointment alone.

Jessie, Susan, and Lee covered the few miles to a one-room house. Somber people hovered around the dwelling. With a sinking feeling, Lee recognized that the Reverend's flock wouldn't come unless they thought this the end.

Susan led them inside. Homemade candles, clustered on the bedside table, cast flickering shadows on the unfinished walls. Lee looked at the spent, old man who lay just as he had that other night.

“Mrs. Wagstaff?” the old preacher's low voice sounded like sandpaper on rough wood.

She went to sit on the only bedside chair. Lee, feeling out of place, slipped to the rear of the crowd, surrounding the bed.

“Reverend.” Jessie took the gaunt hand. “Shall I make you a cup of Margaret's herb tea?”

“I don't think…it will be of any…further help to me.” The old man wheezed as though he had been running for miles.

Lee vicariously felt the effort it cost the preacher.

Jessie clung to his frail hand. “I've sent Caleb—”

Unexpectedly, Caleb's voice came from the doorway, “I left word for the doctor at his hotel.”

“Mrs. Wagstaff, God bless you….” The old man gasped between phrases. “Let your light so shine…. Whatever you have done for the least…”

“I haven't done anything anyone else couldn't do better,” Jessie objected.

The tears in her voice wounded Lee.

“But who else does anything?” Caleb's voice sounded harsh in the velvet cocoon of the dark room.

“Son, forgive. Bitterness…will destroy you.” The Reverend's breathing rustled like a tide of dry leaves swept over pavement. He choked.

Jessie looked helpless, frantic.

Unable to resist her silent appeal, Lee arranged the pillows under the old man's featherlight upper body. The man was literally drowning from within; fluid pooling and compressing his lungs. As Lee pictured the laboring worn-out heart, he felt pressure on his own chest.

“Music,” Reverend Mitchell whispered. “Sing.”

A momentary silence greeted this. Then a woman started humming; another sang softly, “My Lord, what a mourning. My Lord, what a mourning. My Lord, what a mourning when the stars began to fall.” More women joined in, reverently humming and singing the chant. The melody took Lee back to war days in Mississippi and later Virginia. In this humble setting, the genuine feeling in the words opened emotions long buried.

As though expecting the doctor, Jessie walked to the door and looked out.

Don't get your hopes up, Jess. The good doctor will disappoint you. Maybe tonight.

Without pause, the next spiritual began. “Soon I will be done
with the trouble of this world.” An almost physical longing crystallized within Lee. If only one could be done with the trouble of this world. “Soon I will be done with the trouble of this world. Goin' to live with God.” He drew a painful breath. Penetrating, unanticipated grief weighed him down. He leaned back against the rough wall.