“What about your bell money?” The money from her brooch wouldn’t come close to what he needed, but it would double the money he’d saved.
He gave her a sad smile. “I know it sounds irrational. What use is a bell if there’s no church, right? Yet I can’t seem to bring myself to spend it on lumber.”
“God will provide, Jacob. In fact, He has.” She dipped her hand into her pocket, her fingers curling around what now represented her mother’s brooch.
Standing, he yawned and rubbed his hand over his drawn features. “Please, Rosaleen, let’s talk about it in the morning. I’m just too tired right now.” He brushed a kiss across her lips then plodded from the kitchen.
Rosaleen drew her hand from her pocket. Perhaps it was best this way. Maybe after a good night’s rest, Jacob would be more apt to view her offering as a blessing rather than a pitiful fraction of what he required.
That night, she tucked the money deep amid her mattress’s straw stuffing then stole quietly out to meet the Chapmans.
Pink streaks of dawn stained the eastern horizon by the time Rosaleen parted with Patsey and Andrew and slipped quietly into the kitchen door of the boardinghouse. She’d spent the past several hours near the river’s edge assisting the Chapmans and others connected with the Underground Railroad. Mostly, she’d helped dispense food, water, and dry blankets to a dozen or so brave souls who’d managed to cross the river at a shallow point under cover of darkness. Although exhausted, Rosaleen felt good about her nocturnal endeavors. She’d even assisted Andrew in bandaging the wound of a young man who’d been shot while fleeing slave hunters.
In her dark room, she changed into her nightdress and collapsed to her mattress.
Her next conscious sensation was warmth bathing her face. She opened her eyes, blinking against the bright morning sun flooding through the little window above her. Jumping up from her mattress, Rosaleen realized she’d overslept.
Her fingers flew as she threw on and buttoned up the dress she’d worn the night before. She stuffed the fifty dollars Alistair had paid her for the brooch into the pocket of her skirt. After breakfast, she would walk to the church site and surprise Jacob with the money.
Downstairs, she glanced through the parlor doorway and caught a glimpse of Jacob’s blond head bent over the mahogany desk. She was glad to see he hadn’t yet left for the church and prayed that her surprise would help cheer him up. “Jacob,” she whispered, reluctant to disturb his prayer time. She took a tentative step into the parlor.
He raised his head but didn’t look at her. Something in his demeanor caused her heart to quake.
“Jacob?”
He sat motionless, an unspeakable anguish veiling his blue eyes.
Assuming his attitude was caused by his despondency over the ruined church, she pulled the bank notes from her pocket. “I want you to have this—to buy lumber for the church.”
He sprang from the chair, knocking it backward, sending Rosaleen’s blood sluicing to her toes. The muscles worked in his jaw as if straining to hold in check the anger smoldering in his eyes.
When at last he spoke, the words he ground through his clenched jaw shredded her heart. “How can you imagine I’d want your dirty money?”
Jacob’s heart throbbed with exquisite agony as Rosaleen smiled and thrust a fistful of ten-dollar notes toward him. Then anger—blessed, blessed anger—surged through him, anesthetizing the pain. “Where’s your brooch?”
“I—I sold it.”
His eyes closed against the lie. Her offering confirmed the truth his mind and heart had rebelled against since Constable Rafe Arbuckle’s visit just after dawn. What the constable told him when he handed him Rosaleen’s brooch had frozen Jacob’s heart to his ribs.
A knife fight had broken out during a card game at the Billiard Saloon. A man had been stabbed, but no one either could or would identify him. The participants of the game had skedaddled just before the lawmen arrived.
Rafe said he’d found Rosaleen’s brooch among the money abandoned on the gambling table. Having remembered seeing her wear it, Rafe had brought it by, figuring it had either been lost or stolen.
Somehow Jacob forced his gaze to meet Rosaleen’s. “Where were you last night, and how did you get that blood on your dress?” Though he realized it was useless to interrogate her, he couldn’t seem to help himself.
“What?” She glanced down at her stained skirt and gasped. Obviously she hadn’t realized her clothes bore the evidence of last night’s escapades.
Her wide eyes held the look of a trapped animal. “I—I—”
“No, don’t lie.” He held his palm out toward her as she opened her mouth. Jacob couldn’t help wondering if she’d truly experienced a conversion. He should have realized her life on the riverboats would equip her with the skills of an actress. Could he even trust anything she’d told him? There was no way to discern the lies from the truth.
“There is evidence that you were gambling at the Billiard Saloon last night. A man was stabbed, but then you know that.” His gaze settled on her incriminating bloodstained skirt.
“You’d believe that about me?”
He steeled himself against the tears streaming down her face.
She’s acting
,
he admonished his melting heart. “The evidence is before my eyes!”
“If you can think such a thing of me, then I can never be your wife.” She choked the words through realistic sobs.
“That, Mrs. Archer—if that indeed is your name, may be the most truthful statement you’ve made to me thus far.”
As she fled the room in tears, he reached down and righted his chair then sank to its seat. Opening the desk drawer, he gazed for a moment at the gold and rose quartz cameo framed by tiny pearls and rubies—the brooch Rosaleen had pretended she cared so much about.
Had her conversion—the event that had made him believe again in his calling—been nothing but a farce, a sham? How could he now ignore God’s voice telling him he was not fit for the ministry? He slammed the drawer shut, feeling as if his heart had been hollowed out.
Sitting numbly, Jacob stirred at the sound of the front doorbell.
Quiet murmurings and sniffling sounds emanated from the front hallway before Opal ushered Sophie Schuler into the parlor.
“Oh Jacob, you must help me. I—I don’t know what to do.” Sophie’s little face crumpled, and her words dissolved into sobs. She rustled toward him in a dress of pale yellow silk that nearly matched the curls dangling at the sides of her face. Always struck by her small stature, he thought she’d never looked more doll-like.
“Sophie, dear, whatever is wrong?” He gathered his friend into his arms.
This must be the day for broken hearts.
“It’s Uncle Roscoe.”
“Is your uncle ill?” Jacob guided her to the settee. Pulling a calico work kerchief from his back pocket, he offered it to the distraught girl.
“No, his health is fine. He’s just stubborn.” She stamped her little foot on the carpeted floor. “It concerns Edwin, Edwin Applegate.” She dabbed at her reddened eyes with the piece of calico. “Edwin and I have come to love each other very much,” she managed between sniffs. “He has declared his devotion to me but is afraid to ask Uncle Roscoe for my hand.”
Sophie’s revelation caught Jacob off guard. He knew she’d become very friendly with the Applegate twins and that her uncle was less than pleased with that fact. However, embroiled in his own concerns of the heart, he’d had no idea she and Edwin Applegate had developed a romantic relationship. He had to assume Roscoe suspected such an alliance. Her uncle’s attempt to coerce him into asking for Sophie’s hand began to make sense.
Learning that Sophie had situated her heart upon Edwin Applegate brought Jacob a measure of relief. Though heart-broken and disappointed by Rosaleen, he had no intention of marrying a girl he did not love.
Feeling an affinity with his childhood friend’s heartache, he strove to comfort her. “Your uncle’s dispute is with Edwin’s father, not Edwin. Perhaps you might ease him into the idea gradually. Have Edwin come to court you.”
“That’s just it. . .” A new wave of sobs shook her. Then, with a ragged breath, she seemed to compose herself. “Uncle Roscoe won’t allow anyone by the name of Applegate anywhere near the house. Aunt Myrtle sympathizes and likes Edwin, but she loathes discord above all else and will not bring up the subject. Neither Papa nor my brother, Will, is here to help me, and I simply did not know where else to turn.”
“Couldn’t you write to your family for support?”
“Of course. But not knowing Edwin, they’d defer to Uncle Roscoe. You know they would.” This admission brought with it a fresh gush of tears. “Oh, Jacob, you must intercede. Uncle Roscoe will listen to you. He will. He must.” She daintily blew her nose on the kerchief.
“Yes, of course, Sophie.” He took her lace-gloved hands into his. “You know I will do all that is in my power to see to your happiness.” Meeting her shaky smile with his steady one, Jacob wondered if God had allowed his heartache so that he might better understand Sophie’s.
“Oh, thank you, Jacob!” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.
Jacob prayed for a happier conclusion to Sophie’s romance than he’d experienced with his own.
❧
After changing her bloody skirt for a clean one, Rosaleen started down the stairs. She’d fled the parlor, hurt by the fact that Jacob had been so quick to believe she’d patronized the seedy Billiard Saloon. After several minutes of cool reflection, however, she realized that her past, the bloodstains on her skirt, and her lack of another explanation might cause him to wonder.
Yet he had said there was
evidence
she’d been there. What evidence? Had Alistair claimed she’d been there with him? But then, she could not imagine Jacob believing Alistair or that Alistair would even make such a claim.
Only two nights ago, Jacob had asked her to be his wife. Surely he would believe her if she explained. Since Rafe Arbuckle had already questioned Jacob about the runaways, he’d most likely not question him again.
Unwilling to allow her and Jacob’s love—their future together—to be unraveled by a misunderstanding, Rosaleen headed back to the parlor, anxious to mend the rift in their relationship.
What she saw when she reached the parlor doorway drained her blood to her toes. Jacob and Sophie Schuler stood entwined in each other’s arms. She heard Jacob promising in tender tones to see to Sophie’s happiness.
Stunned to numbness, Rosaleen turned and walked back to the stairway.
At the second-story hallway, she gazed out the window. Tears filled her eyes, obscuring the image of the couple in the open landau below her. She watched Jacob and Sophie drive away, and her beautiful dream evaporated, distilled into bitter tears that slid down her face.
Jacob had wasted no time accepting Roscoe Stinnett’s offer, it would seem.
Anger replaced the numbness, salving Rosaleen’s wounded heart. She fingered the bills in her skirt pocket. At least she still had the money from the brooch. Tomorrow was Thursday, so she could leave for Cincinnati on the packet
Swiftsure.
If she exercised some care, the fifty dollars might even get her all the way to New York.
As she headed for the stairs that led to her attic room, she heard what sounded like a low moan. It came from Alistair’s room. Curious, she stopped. “Alistair, are you all right?”
“Go away.” A fit of coughing followed his strained reply.
“Alistair, if you’re ill. . .” When she heard another moan in response, Rosaleen opened the door.
Alistair lay drenched with sweat, still in the clothes he’d worn the day before. A deep maroon stain covered the left side of his chest.
Jacob’s words slammed to the front of Rosaleen’s mind. “Alistair, did this happen at the Billiard Saloon?”
“Yeah, little weasel accused me of cheating.”
“Were you cheating?
“Maybe.” His grin twisted into a grimace. “ ’Fraid I lost your brooch,” he said, squeezing the words between groans as Rosaleen worked to gently remove his jacket and shirt.
“You didn’t tell Reverend Hale that I was with you, did you?”
He swore beneath his breath as she extricated his arms from his bloody sleeves. “ ’Course not. Ain’t seen the good rev’rend.”
She gasped at the ugly red wound just below his left collar-bone. His assailant had obviously been aiming for Alistair’s heart. She sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward that the man’s aim had been poor. The fact that Alistair had managed to walk the distance from the riverfront to the boardinghouse in this condition testified to his considerable constitution. He’d need it all if he were to ultimately survive the assault, she realized.
She examined the inflamed area around his wound. It felt hot to her touch. “I need to get Dr. Morgan.”
“No.” He clutched her hand, his gray eyes wild with fear and fever. “No doctor. But if you’d see to me I’d be obliged.” A fresh spate of coughing followed his labored words. “Please. I helped your dad once, remember, Rosaleen? Could you help me, for old times’ sake?” With each coughing fit, more blood trickled from the wound on his chest.
Her heart softened at the memory of Alistair standing between her consumptive father and the man who’d intended to thrash him after a card game went sour. “Of course I’ll help you, Alistair. But you’re very ill. You need a doctor.”
“Doctors ask questions,” he said with a painful-sounding gasp. “Can’t take the chance. Don’t think I’ll be in any shape to leave Sunday, either.”
“Just lie still. I’ll take care of you.” Although unscrupulous and flawed, Alistair was an old friend. Looking down at his features reconfigured with pain as he lay wounded—perhaps mortally—she knew she could not desert him.
Rosaleen’s heart fell. She wouldn’t be taking the packet to Cincinnati any time soon.