The Rose of Winslow Street (28 page)

Mirela looked drained as she sank into a chair, but her eyes still held that curious glow and her voice radiated with confidence. “Michael, I know why our uncle came to America. And I
finally
understand why I was meant to come as well.” She nodded to the stack of worthless casks strewn before the fireplace. “The letters say these are the relics of the Convent of Saint Katerina. This was the convent our uncle was so desperate to save after it was ruined by an earthquake, the convent he memorialized in the stained-glass windows upstairs. Uncle Constantine brought the relics here for safekeeping until the nuns could follow. The old books are the diaries of Saint Katerina, written in the twelfth century.” Mirela's trembling hand covered her heart as she caught her breath, still ragged in her excitement. “No wonder Uncle Constantine was so anxious to protect these treasures. The diaries are written in Saint Katerina's own hand. I don't know why the sisters took so long to arrive and claim their treasures, but our uncle died before they could make it here.”

Her face was still wet with tears, but Mirela was utterly magnificent in her joy. She rose to her feet with the strength of a crusading queen and met his gaze. “I believe I am meant to look for the sisters and bring them their treasures,” she said. “If I have to travel a thousand miles, walk through storms of fire or ice . . . I will not stop searching this land until I find the holy sisters. And then I will live among them for as long as God wishes me to remain on this side of heaven.”

The breath left Michael's body in a rush and Mirela's image blurred before his eyes. She had found her calling in life, and her suffering in Romania had served to lead her to this exact spot.

All along Michael had naïvely thought it was his determination to immigrate to America that had brought them to Colden. Now he knew this had been Mirela's journey, and he was merely guiding her to where she needed to be. He felt no shame as a fat tear rolled down his face in front of Libby and all his neighbors, for he had done precisely as God had intended for him to do, and never had he felt so honored. He had just gambled away the last bit of property he owned, and with the exception of a little bit of jasmine oil, he was penniless. But his way was clear to him. If Mirela needed him to guide her to the wilds of the Arctic or the distant shores of the Orient, he would fulfill this mission.

L
ibby felt like part of a wonderful adventure as she sat around the Aucklands' kitchen table with the documents from the chimney laid out before the group. Mr. Auckland had gone to prowl through the stacks of the library to see if he could learn the whereabouts of Mother Alma's convent. He said the library owned a hefty directory of religious orders that might help him locate the holy sisters. While they awaited his return, Libby and the Dobrescus gathered in the kitchen to look more carefully through the contents of the chimney. Luke and Andrei sat on the floor polishing decades of tarnish from the brass candlesticks. Libby sat curled beside Michael as they listened to Mirela read the letters and begin piecing the story together. Turk, Joseph, and Mrs. Auckland rounded out the group, fascinated by the story as they listened to Mirela.

“The sisters needed to await permission from the Holy Father before they could leave Romania,” Mirela said. “After their original convent was destroyed in the earthquake, they moved to a carriage house at the base of the mountain until better lodgings could be found. The house was in a valley plagued by floods, and Uncle Constantine feared for the security of their relics, so he took them to America. Over and over in the letters, Mother Alma apologizes for taking so long, but first there were problems getting permission, then with accumulating enough money and finding sisters who were willing to make the journey.”

In the dim recesses of Libby's mind, she remembered Mother Alma's visit to their house on Winslow Street, for it had been she who first answered the door. She was only seven or eight when the old lady came knocking, wearing peculiar clothing and speaking in an accent so thick it was hard to understand her. Libby had been alarmed by the strange woman and ran to fetch her father.

Now she felt terrible for the way she had fled from the old lady. Perhaps it was normal for a child to be afraid of anyone who was different, but she wondered what would have happened if her father had been a little more patient with Mother Alma's broken English.

“Do you really think the sisters are still here in America?” Libby asked. “Might they have returned to Romania?”

Mirela shook her head. “I feel in my heart that they are here. The letters written between Mother Alma and my uncle speak of their conviction that they should come to America. I do not believe they would have left after so many years of struggle to get here.”

The thudding of footsteps on the front porch heralded the return of Mr. Auckland from the library. He nudged the door open with his shoulder, as his arms were weighed down with books. He was winded by the time he found an empty spot on the table to set the books down.

“They are in Kentucky!” he said breathlessly. “I found mention of them in a directory of religious orders. They founded the convent in 1859, and their numbers have been growing ever since.”

“Where is Kentucky?” Mirela asked, but Libby was appalled. Compared to Massachusetts, Kentucky was a backwater. And so far away! But if Mirela was determined to settle there, she must hold her tongue.

“I think it is a fair distance from here,” Libby hedged.

Mrs. Auckland went to fetch a map, while her husband paged through the books he'd brought back from the library. “They belong to an order that is committed to a life of poverty and service,” he said. “The linen dress you found today was said to have belonged to their founder, Saint Katerina, who died in the twelfth century. She was from a wealthy and noble family, but she turned her back on that to devote her life to God.”

Mrs. Auckland returned with an atlas to show the family where Kentucky was in relation to Massachusetts. Michael left Libby's side to study the map and pin down the location of the tiny village where the convent was located.

It was chilly without Michael's reassuring arm surrounding her. A twinge of anxiety took root in Libby's mind as Michael located the remote mountain pass. It looked terribly isolated to her.

“Well then,” Michael said, “we have quite a journey ahead of us.”

Her heart sank. Libby followed Michael's finger as it traced a path across Connecticut, through New York City, across New Jersey and then through Pennsylvania and West Virginia before finally reaching Kentucky. Michael would be leaving her, and she did not know if he would ever return.

“You will take me then?” Mirela asked, hope shining in her eyes.

Michael's smile was broad. “I have already brought you halfway around the world. What kind of man would abandon the adventure this close to the goal?”

This close!
It looked to be more than a thousand miles between Colden and Kentucky. When Mirela flung her arms around Michael it was impossible to miss how he beamed with elation. All Libby felt was dread at the pending separation, but Michael was already gearing up for the next chapter of his grand quest.

“When can we leave?” Mirela asked.

Michael ruffled her hair. “Given that we are homeless and there is nothing to hold us here, we might as well begin immediately.”

Libby blanched. There was nothing to hold Michael and his family in Colden any longer. Luke and Andrei were jumping with excitement at the prospect of a treasure hunt, Mirela was brimming with euphoria, and Joseph was already gathering up their belongings. And Michael was not even looking at Libby as he grinned down at Mirela. There was no chance he would ever regain possession of the Winslow house, and now he was moving on to Kentucky without her.

An urgent pounding on the door interrupted the celebration. Before Mrs. Auckland could even make her way across the kitchen, the door burst open and Arthur Stockdale, Libby's elderly neighbor from across the street, came rushing into the house. Libby shot to her feet. Mr. Stockdale was out of breath and looking directly at her.

“Come quickly,” he said. “Something is wrong with your father. He is outside swinging a sledgehammer against that chimney that was opened up this afternoon. He has gone insane and no one can talk any sense into him.”

Libby's breath froze. This sounded like more than her father's random frustrations. Never, in all of her father's rages, had he ever resorted to any type of violence. She sprang to her feet and reached for her cloak.

“I will come with you,” Michael said.

More than anything, she longed for the comfort of Michael's solid presence at her side, but she shook her head. “The sight of you will inflame him more.” The weight of what lay before her came crashing down. Her father's brilliant mind had been deteriorating for some time. She had seen the signs, but it was easier to attribute it to his normal grouchiness worsening with age. Was it possible that the stress of the court case over the house, and now Jasper's betrayal, had finally broken her father's mind? All she knew for certain was that if her father caught sight of Michael, it was liable to make the situation worse.

Her limbs were heavy as she moved through the house, collecting her clothing and stuffing it into her satchel. She needed to hurry, but she dreaded what she would find when she returned home. Had it only been three days that she and the Dobrescus had been enjoying the generous hospitality of the Aucklands? It had been the happiest three days of her life. After being a part of this warm group of people, she had realized they added a richness to her life she had not known was lacking. She found it impossible to look at any of the Dobrescus as she moved through the house, gathering her paltry belongings.

Before she could leave, Michael stepped in front of her. “I will come see you tonight,” he said. “Watch for me outside your window and meet me when you can. Your father need not know of my presence.”

She bit her lip. If Michael was going to leave Colden, it would be easier to walk away now, where it would be impossible to break down and beg or cry in front of so many witnesses. She could not be certain she would be so stoic otherwise. She pushed toward the door, but Michael blocked her exit. “Promise me you will meet me tonight,” he said with a low note of urgency. “I love you and can't let this come between us. Not now, when we are about to be separated.”

So he would be leaving. Libby could not trust herself to speak. With the barest nod of her head, she turned and left.

The sun had slipped below the horizon and light was dwindling as Libby arrived back home. A group of neighbors stood in the yard, forming a semicircle a safe distance from the sledgehammer her father was swinging against the exterior of the fireplace. Libby winced when she saw his thin cotton shirt, completely soaked in perspiration as he struggled to heft the sledgehammer and slam it against the bricks of the chimney. His breath was punctuated with sobs, but his focus was riveted on the spot where he had managed to chip a hole in the side of the chimney.

The neighbors parted for her as she rushed forward. “Father, this is dangerous,” she said as she got as close as she dared.

His breathing was so labored she feared he was on the verge of a heart attack. “Don't try to stop me,” he said on a ragged breath. “This chimney is contaminated, and it needs to be destroyed.”

“That is what he has been saying all evening,” Mrs. Stockdale said. “There is no talking him out of it.”

Libby looked at the wide base of the chimney. He was attacking it on the portion that housed the fireplace in the study. In her father's twisted reasoning, he probably believed the hidden contents of the chimney were yet another invasion of his home, polluting it beyond repair. He had never been reasonable about the Dobrescus, and she would not waste time trying to convince him that an empty chimney was no threat to the sanctity of his home. Logic was useless, but perhaps she could appeal to his engineering skills.

“Where is the demolition plan?” she asked calmly.

The sledgehammer landed with a thump on the lawn, her father leaning over and bracing himself on its wooden handle as he dragged air into his lungs. He turned a curious eye to look at her. “Plan?”

She glanced up at the tall column of bricks, stretching up along all three stories of the house. “You do have a demolition plan, don't you?”

He followed her gaze up the length of the chimneystack. He swiped a hand across his sweating brow, then swiveled his attention back to Libby. “No, I haven't done that yet.”

She took a step forward and stood beside him as she looked critically at the width of the chimney base. “Unless you have a plan, the fireplace in the back bedroom will be damaged and unsafe.”

Her father shook his head. “I don't care. This entire chimney is coming down, and I won't rest until it is finished.”

“I agree with you,” she said calmly, ignoring the mutterings of surprise from the assembled group. There would be no talking her father out of this, but if he brought the chimneystack down with his haphazard assault, it would be dangerous to anyone in the vicinity, and maybe even render the house unstable. “I think the task can be done much more efficiently if we put a demolition plan together. I will help you.”

Her father wobbled on his feet, and she grabbed his arms. A handful of neighbors stepped closer to help, but their presence seemed to make him more agitated.

“Make all those people go away,” her father whispered in a shattered voice.

He was sinking to the ground, the strength in his body leaving him. Libby guided him down onto the soft grass.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “Can you get enough air?”

Her father nodded, but she covered the center of his chest with the flat of her hand, assessing the rapid but steady beating of his heart. He brushed her hand away and sent her a weak smile in the fading light. “I'm fine, Libby. Your idea for a demolition plan is a good one, but I can't think while all those people are watching us.”

Libby sent a glance of appeal to her neighbors. Concern mingled with pity on most of their faces, but a few of the older children were snickering. She took three large strides to Mr. Stockdale and spoke in a low voice. “Can you make everyone leave, but keep an eye on us from your front window? I will signal if I need help.”