Maggie's Journey (McKenna's Daughters) (2 page)

“Of course we’ll pray.”

Florence whispered the words so she wouldn’t awaken Joshua. He had been really tired lately. She could keep a prayer vigil throughout the night because she knew she wouldn’t sleep with the storm raging around them. For hours she whispered petitions for Lenora McKenna, interspersed with occasional prayers for a child of her own. She knew it was selfish, but since so many people were praying to the Almighty right now, maybe He would answer her personal request as well.

“Noooooooo!”

The screaming wail that reverberated all around the clearing broke through Florence’s slumber, jerking her wide awake. Nothing like the weak sounds she’d heard earlier, and the voice was too deep to be a woman’s. She shook her head and glanced out the opening to the soft, predawn light. Evidently she had fallen asleep, but she didn’t feel rested.

Joshua stirred beside her. “What was that?”

“I’m not sure.” She sat up and clutched the quilt close to her chest. “It almost sounded like a wounded animal . . . but not quite.”

He started pulling on his trousers. “I’m going to see what’s going on.” He kissed her on her nose. “Don’t leave the wagon until I get back and tell you it’s safe. You hear?”

She nodded.

He leaned to give her one of his heart-melting kisses. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Florence didn’t want anything to happen to him either, but he wouldn’t appreciate her asking him to stay with her and let the other men take care of things. After he jumped down from the wagon, she stretched a sheet of canvas across the opening and started to dress for the day.

Joshua loved her so much. Her father had never kissed her mother in front of anyone, even the children. But Joshua showed her how much he loved her no matter who was around. Why wasn’t his love enough for her?
If only that love would produce a child.

God must be tired of hearing all her petitions for a baby. But just as Rachel in the Bible kept telling God that without a child she would die, Florence would continue begging Him for one until she had no breath.

She slid the covering from the opening and peeked out. Sunrise lit the area with a golden glow. Everything looked new and fresh after the rain washed away the dust. Even the bare branches of the trees glistened with diamondlike drops clinging to the bark.

Joshua hurried across the circle toward their wagon. He was deep in conversation with Overton Johnson. Even from here she recognized the seriousness that puckered both of their brows. She wondered what they were discussing so intently.

A few feet from the wagon, her husband glanced up and waved. She stepped down and waited for the two men. Maybe Overton would stay while she fixed breakfast. A single man, he often took turns eating with the families.

Overton approached. “Miz Caine, sorry the yell woke you. Miz McKenna died birthing three babies. Her husband took it real bad. What with the three babies and all. He shore weren’t prepared for such a thing.”

“Three babies?” Florence clutched her dress above her heart. Pain speared through her. She could almost feel her empty womb heave inside her.

Could anything be worse?
She couldn’t even have one baby, and they had three. Her breathing deepened, and she fought to hide her thoughts from the men.

But Lenora died.
The words bounced around inside her brain. Chagrined, Florence kept her mouth shut. How could she be so callous and selfish?

Joshua slid one arm around her and cradled her by his side. “What’s going to happen now?” He aimed his question at the wagon master.

Overton pulled off his hat and held it in front of him, turning it nervously in his hands. “We’ll have a funeral service and bury ’er today.”

“I could help plan a group meal.” Florence had to do something to redeem herself, at least in her own eyes.

“That’d be right nice, Miz Caine.” He scratched his bearded chin. “Mr. McKenna will have his hands full caring for those triplet girls. That’s for sure.”

The long day rushed into eternity. A funeral and burying. A grieving husband. A somber noontime meal. Three baby girls without a mother. Everything ran together in Florence’s mind while she hurried to aid whomever she could. Late in the day after nursing the child, Charlotte Holden placed one of the babies into Florence’s waiting arms before she headed back to her wagon to nurse her own baby.

Having never held a newborn, Florence couldn’t believe how tiny the infant was. She settled onto a stump and cuddled the crying child, trying to calm her. Emotions she’d never experienced before awakened inside her, and a mother’s love flooded her heart. As Florence rocked back and forth and held the infant close, the cries diminished, and the tiny girl slept. She cradled the baby in one arm and with the other hand lightly grasped one of the tight fists until it loosened. The skin felt just as velvety as she had imagined. She tucked the baby’s arm and hand inside the swaddling blanket and touched the fuzzy red curls that formed a halo for the tiny head. Everything going on around her in the crowded circle faded from her awareness. She couldn’t get enough of studying everything about the baby girl.

Wonder what your father will name you.
She gathered the fragile baby even closer against her and dreamed of holding her own child. Surely it wouldn’t hurt for her to pretend just for a little while that this infant was hers.

Florence lost all sense of time while she enjoyed this little one. The baby rested in her arms, totally trusting that Florence would take care of her. Florence hadn’t thought about what it would feel like for someone to completely depend on her. She leaned over to kiss the baby’s forehead and crooned a nameless tune.
Is that what a real mother does
?

“Florence.” Joshua’s voice drew her back to the clearing between the circled wagons.

But her husband wasn’t alone. All the clamor of the camp had masked the sound of the approaching footsteps of the two men. Mr. McKenna accompanied him with a blanket-wrapped baby in his arms. For a moment she almost hadn’t recognized the man they’d known for so many months, but the sleeping baby on his shoulder was a good clue. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for a month. Bags hung under his red-rimmed eyes, and the remnants of tears trailed down his cheeks. He hadn’t shaved for at least a week, and his clothes hung on him as though they belonged to someone else. He resembled a man at least ten years older than she knew him to be. He clutched the baby, as if he were afraid someone would take her away from him.

Florence rose, knowing what that felt like.
He’s going to take this little angel from me.
What could she say to a man who had been through what Mr. McKenna had? She had no words to offer. And after luxuriating in the feel of this child in her arms, how could Florence ever give her back to her father? The pain would be like amputating another part of her heart. How many more hits could her heart take before it completely stopped beating?

“Mrs. Caine.” Angus McKenna came to an abrupt stop and cleared his throat before starting again. “I’ve come to ask you something that . . . I never dreamed I’d . . . ever ask anyone.” His voice rasped, and he stopped to take a gulp of air, staring off into the distance.

She couldn’t take her eyes from him, even when the baby in her arms squirmed. “How can we help you?”

New tears followed the trails down his cheeks and disappeared into his beard. He grabbed a bandanna from his back pocket and blew his nose with one hand.

“I’ve just lost the most important thing in my life.” He paused and stared at the ground. “I don’t know how I can go on without her.” His voice cracked on the last word. Once again he paused, but much longer this time. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed several times. “I’ve been crying out to God, but I don’t think He’s listening to me right now. If He were . . . ”

What a thing for a man to admit to them
. Florence knew he must be near a breakdown. He did need help, but what could they do?

“I’ve decided . . . it would be best to find another family to raise one of my girls.” He stood straighter. “I’ve watched you with Margaret Lenora . . . ”

“Is that what you’ve named her?” Florence gazed at the sleeping baby, and her heart ached for the child. To grow up without a mother.

“Yes.” He stared across the clearing with unfocused eyes. “My wife’s parents couldn’t agree on a name for her when she was born. Her father wanted Mary Margaret. Her mother wanted Catherine Lenora. So they gave her all four names.” Mr. McKenna seemed relieved to be talking about something else besides what had happened that day. “I’ve named this one”—he indicated the baby on his shoulder—“Mary Lenora.”

He didn’t say anything about the third girl, and Florence was afraid to ask.

Angus looked straight at Joshua, and her husband gave a slow nod. “Your husband has told me . . . how much you’ve wanted a child.”

For a moment, anger flared in her chest. Joshua shouldn’t share her secret with anyone. She took a deep breath to keep from saying something she’d regret. Even though she didn’t even look at her husband, she could feel his gaze deep inside. She was grateful he couldn’t see the ugly jealousy and covetousness that resided there.

“What I’m trying to say, Mrs. Caine, is . . . ” His Adam’s apple bobbed again. “Would you consider adopting one of my daughters and raising her as your own?” He snapped his mouth shut and just stood there waiting, staring at the ground and clinging to the tiny baby in his arms.

As her own?
Was this God’s answer to her prayer for a baby?
It could be.
She knew she should try to encourage Mr. McKenna to keep his daughters. He might marry again and want all three of them, but she pushed those thoughts aside before they could take root. This might be the only chance she would ever have for a child, and she didn’t want to lose it. Finally, she turned her attention toward Joshua.

“I’ll be happy with whatever you decide, Florence.” Love poured from her husband and enclosed her in its warmth.

How could she refuse? She held this precious bundle close to her heart right now, and she didn’t want to ever let her go.

“I’m just asking you to keep the name I’ve given her.” Mr. McKenna looked as if he might collapse at any moment.

“I’d be honored to have your daughter. I love her already.” She kissed the fuzz atop the sleeping baby’s head.

Finally, it hit her.
I’m not going to have to give Margaret Lenora back
. Florence swayed. Joshua was instantly at her side with his arm supporting her.

“I’ll send some clothes and blankets for Margaret Lenora. Melody Murray will come over a little later to nurse her. She and another woman are working together to feed the babies.”

Her heart broke for him as she watched Mr. McKenna turn and trudge toward his own wagon. Along the way, other people spoke to him, but he just kept going as if he didn’t even notice them.

Florence didn’t even think to tell him that Charlotte Holden had already fed Margaret Lenora. She clutched the baby girl close to her breast, rejoicing over his gift to her . . . to them. If only she didn’t feel so guilty for what she’d been thinking.

Chapter 1

September 1885

Seattle, Washington Territory

Margaret Lenora Caine sat in the library of their mansion on Beacon Hill. Because of the view of Puget Sound, which she loved, she had the brocade draperies pulled back to let the early September sunshine bathe the room with warmth. Basking in the bright light, Maggie concentrated on the sketch pad balanced on her lap. After leaning back to get the full effect of the drawing, she reached a finger to smudge the shadows between the folds of the skirt. With a neckline that revealed the shoulders, but still maintained complete modesty, this dress was her best design so far, one she planned to have Mrs. Murdock create in that dreamy, shimmery green material that came in the last shipment from China. Maggie knew silk was usually a summer fabric, but with it woven into a heavier brocade satin, it would be just right for her eighteenth birthday party. And with a few changes to the design, she could have another dress created as well.

Once again she leaned forward and drew a furbelow around the hem, shading it carefully to show depth. The added weight of the extra fabric would help the skirt maintain its shape, providing a pleasing silhouette at any ball. She pictured herself wearing the beautiful green dress, whirling in the arms of her partner, whoever he was. Maybe someone like Charles Stanton, since she'd admired him for several years, and he was so handsome.

"Margaret, what
are
you doing?"

The harsh question broke Maggie's concentration. The charcoal in her hand slipped, slashing an ugly smear across the sketch. She glanced at her mother standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over her bosom. Maggie heaved a sigh loud enough to reach the entrance, and her mother's eyebrows arched so quickly Maggie wanted to laugh . . . almost, but she didn't dare add to whatever was bothering Mother now. Her stomach began to churn, a thoroughly uncomfortable sensation. Lately, everything she did put Mother in a bad mood. She searched her mind for whatever could have set her off this time. She came up with nothing, so she pasted a smile across her face.

"I'm sketching." She tried for a firm tone but wasn't sure it came across that way.

"You don't have time for that right now." Florence Caine hurried across the Persian wool carpet and stared down at her. "We have too much to do before your party."

Of course her mother was right, but Maggie thought she could take a few minutes to get the new design on paper while it was fresh in her mind. She glanced toward the mantel clock.
Oh
,
no.
Her few minutes had turned into over two hours. She'd lost herself in drawing designs again. No wonder Mother was exasperated.

She jumped up from the burgundy wing-back chair. "I didn't realize it was so late. I'm sorry, Mother."

Florence Caine took the sketch pad from her hand and studied the drawing with a critical eye. "That's a different design."

Maggie couldn't tell if she liked the dress or not, but it didn't matter. Designing was in Maggie's blood. Her grandmother was a dressmaker who came up with her own designs instead of using those in
Godey's Lady's Book
or
Harper's Bazar.
And, according to Mother's sister, she never even looked at a Butterick pattern. Aunt Georgia had told her often enough about all the society women who wouldn't let anyone but Agatha Carter make their clothing. They knew they wouldn't be meeting anyone else wearing the exact same thing when they attended social events in Little Rock, Arkansas. Not for the first time, Maggie wished she could talk to her grandmother at least once.

With the news about people being able to converse across long distances with something called the telephone, someday she might talk to her that way. But Maggie wanted a face-to-face meeting. Knowing another dress designer would keep her from feeling like such a misfit. Mother kept reminding her that she didn't really fit the mold of a young woman of their social standing in Seattle. At least, Daddy let her do what she wanted to. She didn't know what she'd do without him to offset Mother's insistence, which was becoming more and more harsh.

According to Aunt Georgia, the business Grandmother Carter started was still going strong, even though her grandmother had to be over sixty years old. Maggie planned to go visit her relatives in Arkansas, so she could tour the company. She hoped her journey would happen before she was too late to actually meet Agatha Carter. Her deepest desire was to follow in her grandmother's footsteps, since she had inherited her talents.

The sound of ripping tore through her thoughts. Aghast, she turned to catch her mother decimating her sketch. She lunged toward the paper, trying to save it, but Mother held the sketch just out of her reach.

"What are you doing?" Tears clogged her throat, but she struggled to hide them.

Dribbling the tiny pieces into the ornate wastepaper basket beside the mahogany desk, her mother looked up at her. "Just throwing it away. You had already ruined it anyway."

Anger sliced through Maggie's heart, leaving a jagged trail of pain. She still wanted to keep the sketch. She could use it while she created another. Her plan was to ask her father to help her surprise Mother. The design would set off her mother's tall stature and still youthful figure. She planned to ask him for a length of the special blue satin brocade that would bring out the color of Mother's eyes. The dress would make Mother the envy of most of her friends when the winter social season started in a couple of months. Now she'd have to begin the drawing all over again. So many hours of work and her dreams torn to shreds.

"Darling." That syrupy tone Mother used when she was trying to make a point grated on Maggie's nerves. "When are you going to grow up and forget about your little pictures of dresses?"

Little pictures of dresses?
The words almost shredded the rest of Maggie's control. She gripped her hands into fists and twisted them inside the folds of her full skirt.

They'd had this discussion too many times already. She gritted her teeth, but it didn't help. In a few days she would be eighteen, old enough to make decisions for herself—whether her mother agreed or not.

She stood as tall as her tiny frame would allow her. "Those aren't just 'little drawings,' Mother. I
am
going to be a dress designer."

The icy disdain shooting from her mother's eyes made Maggie cringe inside, but she stood her ground.

"Margaret Lenora Caine, I am tired of these conversations. You will
not
become a working girl." Mother huffed out a very unladylike deep breath. "You don't need to. Your father has worked hard to provide a very good living for the three of us. I will not listen to any more of this nonsense."

Maggie had heard that phrase often enough, and she never liked it. Mother swept from the room as if she had the answer to everything, but she didn't. Not for Maggie. And her sketches were not nonsense.

She tried to remember the last time she pleased her mother. Had she ever really?

Her hair was too curly and hard to tame into a proper style. And the hue was too red. Maggie wouldn't stay out of the sun to prevent freckles from dotting her face. She could come up with a long list of her mother's complaints if she wanted to take the time. She wasn't that interested in what was going on among the elite in Seattle. She had more things to think about than
how to catch a husband
.

Maggie wanted to get married someday. But first she would follow her dream. Become the woman she was created to be. That meant being a dress designer, taking delight in making other women look their best. If it wasn't for Grandmother Carter, Maggie would think she had been born into the wrong family.

The enticing aroma of gingerbread called her toward the kitchen. Spending time with Mrs. Jorgensen was just what she needed right now. Since she didn't have any grandparents living close by, their cook and housekeeper substituted quite well in Maggie's mind.

She pushed open the door, wrinkling her nose and sniffing like the bunny in the back garden while she headed across the brick floor toward the cabinet where her older friend worked. "What is that heavenly smell?"

Mrs. Jorgensen turned with a warm smile. "As if you didn't already know. You've eaten enough of my gingerbread, for sure."

Pushing white tendrils from her forehead, the woman quickly sliced the spicy concoction and placed a large piece on a saucer while Maggie retrieved the butter from the ice box. Maggie slathered a thick coating on and watched it melt into the hot, brown bread.

"Here's something to drink." Mrs. Jorgensen set a glass of cold milk on the work table in the middle of the large room.

Maggie hopped up on a tall stool and took a sip, swinging her legs as she had when she was a little girl. Mother would have something else to complain about if she saw her.
That's not ladylike and is most unbecoming.
The oft-spoken words rang through Maggie's mind. But Mother hardly ever came into the kitchen. Mrs. Jorgensen met with Mother in her sitting room to plan the meals and the day's work schedule.

"This is the only place in the house where I can just be myself." Maggie took a bite and let the spices dance along her tongue, savoring the sting of spices mixed with the sweetness of molasses.

"
Ja
." The grandmotherly woman patted Maggie's shoulder. "So tell me what's bothering you,
kära
."

Tears sprang to Maggie's eyes. "Why doesn't Mother understand me? She doesn't even try."

She licked a drip of butter that started down her finger, then took another bite of the warm gingerbread. Heat from the cook stove made the enormous kitchen feel warm and cozy, instead of the cold formality of most of the house.

Mrs. Jorgensen folded a tea towel into a thick square, then went to the oven and removed another pan of the dessert. "What's the bee in her bonnet this time?"

Maggie loved to hear the Scandinavian woman's quaint sayings.

"She won't consider letting me continue to design dresses." Maggie sipped her milk, not even being careful not to leave a white mustache on her upper lip. "I've drawn them for our seamstress to use for the last five years. As many of them have been for Mother as for me. And she's enjoyed the way other women exclaimed over the exclusive creations she wore. I don't understand why she doesn't want me to continue to develop my artistic abilities."

"Your father is a very wealthy man, for sure." The cook's nod punctuated her statement. "Your dear mother just wants what is best for you."

"Why does she get to decide what's best for me?" Maggie felt like stomping her foot, but she refrained. That would be like a child having a tantrum. She would not stoop that far now that she was no longer a child. "Soon I'll be eighteen. Plenty old enough to make my own decisions."

"Yah, and you sure have the temper to match all that glorious red hair,
älskling
." She clicked her tongue. "Such a waste of energy."

After enjoying the love expressed in Mrs. Jorgensen's endearment, Maggie slid from the stool and gathered her plate and glass to carry them to the sink. "You're probably right. I'll just have to talk to Daddy."

The door to the hallway swung open.

"Talk to me about what?" Her tall father strode into the room, filling it with a sense of power.

"About my becoming a dress designer."

A flit of pain crossed his face before he smiled. "A dress designer?"

Maggie fisted her hands on her waist. "We've discussed this before. I want to go to Arkansas and see about learning more at The House of Agatha Carter."

Her father came over and gathered her into a loving embrace. "I said I'd
think
about letting you go. There are many details that would have to be ironed out first. But I didn't say you couldn't go."

Maggie leaned her cheek against his chest, breathing in his familiar spicy scent laced with the fragrance of pipe tobacco. "I know. But Mother won't let me. Just you wait and see."

He grasped her by the shoulders and held her away from him. "Maggie, my Maggie, you've always been so impatient. I said I'd talk to her when the time is right. You'll just have to trust me on this."