скачать книгу бесплатно
“Good,” he said in that commanding voice of his. “As a representative of my newspaper I expect you to do your job.”
“I shan’t do anything else.”
“Good,” he said once more. “Make certain of that.”
I will, she thought as she continued to hold his look. Believe me, the subject of romance is firmly closed. He had read her motives once before. Trudy trusted he had read between the lines now, for without further word, her employer disengaged the brake and urged the horse forward.
Chapter Two (#uae58ad75-4a40-589a-89b7-56d7b718c610)
It wasn’t the encounter with Zimmer and the rest of his rough-looking compatriots that had left Miss Martin silent. It was Peter’s remarks that kept her stone still beside him. He felt bad for speaking harshly to her, especially when he accused her of sightseeing, but he told himself it had to be done. She said she had come because of her brother, a desire to help him and the reverend who had tended him. He just wanted to be certain that was her only reason.
If she had put the idea of marriage to him out of her mind, then he had been successful. If he had made her reconsider marriage in general, then even better. If only Caroline had more carefully considered such things before my brother came along.
The wagon jolted and Miss Martin’s arm brushed his. Peter’s thoughts returned to her.
Romantic notions aside, he was genuinely concerned for her welfare. She does not belong here. Ideally they’d soon go their separate ways. Just as they’d resumed their trek to the church, Dr. Mackay had mentioned the possibility of sending for more supplies. Hopefully Miss Martin would be the one to return to Baltimore to do so. It’s the best place for her.
Miss Martin’s innocent, open nature was refreshing, but it was also unnerving. She believes the best about everyone she meets and thinks that love, faith and hope are enough to set the world right.
His brothers had thought the same.
But hope can’t reverse time or raise the dead, Peter thought. This world is no longer a Garden of Eden, not since jealousy, greed and murder entered it. And in this desolate place, there are too many who would take advantage of that innocence rather than protect it. Better by far for her to be on her way. He cast Miss Martin a glance as the wagon lurched forward. Silence still reigned.
Presently she was taking in the scenery, but it was not the majestic Blue Ridge Mountains or the rock-dotted Shenandoah River that held her attention. It was the imprint of war. For miles she had viewed charred remains of barns and stables, empty homesteads now covered with vines, but the nearer they came to the town of Forest Glade, the more evident the destruction.
The once prosperous little hamlet on the north fork of the river was now only a shell of its former glory. The flour mill had been destroyed. The sawmill was much the same. Remnants of warped and twisted machinery sat rusting into oblivion. Of the workers’ houses opposite the sites, not a structure remained intact.
“This makes me angry,” Miss Martin said suddenly.
“It should,” Peter replied.
After the space of a heartbeat she then said, “I can’t help but wonder what has happened to the people who lived here, who worked here? Are the men we met just now on the road the most desperate of the lot or are there others worse off than they?”
He could hear the emotion in her voice, the compassion. That was another thing he admired about her. At her age most Baltimore belles would be focused on replacing their outdated wardrobes as soon as possible. He gave her a quick once-over. Here she sat in homespun, protected from the rain by only a plain knitted gray shawl and an unembellished straw hat. She looked damp and uncomfortable but she was not complaining.
Again his conscience was pricked. I did speak harshly to her. Perhaps more harshly than necessary. “That’s what I’m here to find out,” he said, “and to hold those responsible who promised to make reparations.”
She looked at him with those wide, innocent green eyes. “I’ll help you in any way I can,” she promised.
Great. He sighed under his breath, for in his opinion she was still a little too eager to help him. Making quite the effort to keep his irritation from coming through in his voice, he then said, “Well, I’m not all that certain how much help you can be. I can’t have you going off investigating, gathering information on your own.”
She took no offense at that. Thankfully, she realized he didn’t doubt her research abilities but her physical safety. “That’s why you wanted David,” she said.
“Yes,” he said simply.
She turned her attention back to the road. So did he. The wagon rocked and bounced over the uneven ground. About a half mile beyond the crossroads stood the church. Its faded white steeple still pointed faithfully toward the rolling gray sky, but vines and thistles were fast consuming its foundation. Boards had been nailed across several broken windows to protect the panes from further damage. Peter couldn’t help but wonder what it had looked like when Daniel first saw it, or when Miss Martin’s brother had, for that matter.
Were they both here at the same time? Knowing that detail had no bearing on his personal mission, Peter pushed the thought from his mind. As they pulled into the churchyard, Reverend Webb’s wife, Sarah, met them. “Thank the Lord for your safe arrival,” she said. “I’m so pleased to see all is well.”
But not without incident, Peter thought.
Her husband, James, explained what had happened on the road. Peter then reported the lost cargo. The woman’s tired face fell even further. “What exactly remains of your supplies?” she asked.
“We’ll need to take inventory to be certain of that,” Dr. Mackay said.
“Never fear,” Miss Martin added, her optimism apparently rebounding. “We can still assist many with what remains.”
The Mackays introduced themselves, and then Miss Martin. Mrs. Webb offered her a smile. Eager to converse with the woman, Miss Martin climbed down from the other side of the wagon and hurried to where the reverend’s wife stood.
Having secured the reins, Peter gingerly made his way to the ground, listening as Miss Martin explained that her brother had lodged at the church facilities.
“Oh?” Mrs. Webb said.
“Yes, and I was eager to come and thank you and help you in any way I can.”
Her enthusiasm was obvious. Peter didn’t doubt it was sincere but he couldn’t help but think, You won’t be so optimistic when you see the inside of the church. I’m certain it’s a far cry different from your own.
Half of the pews were missing. According to Reverend Webb, they had been used for firewood, stretchers and crutches following the battle of New Market when the church had served as a field hospital. Looking closely at the floor, one could still make out the bloodstains that had seeped into the wood planks.
Miss Martin noticed them at once. Peter saw the look of horror wash over her face. However, it quickly passed. Apparently she was determined to soldier on, but still in her naive way.
“Are you in need of further seating for your congregation?” she asked the reverend. “Perhaps we can find someone to craft more pews.”
Peter couldn’t help but roll his eyes at that. Crafting pews would not be high on anyone’s list around here, not when homes needed to be rebuilt first.
“Thank you, miss,” Reverend Webb said with all the gentleness of a seasoned saint, “but we have all we need, at least for those who attend now. Many of our church members are no more.”
“No more?”
“Deceased, miss. The fortunate ones have relocated, reunited with family elsewhere.”
“Oh,” she said slowly. “I see.”
Do you? Peter wondered. Do you now see the real world? For I don’t have time to enlighten you.
There were articles to write on the local provisional authorities and missing supplies to locate. He also wanted to assist in the reunion of displaced family members, but there was one particular family member he was most desperate to find—his brother Daniel’s bride.
Caroline. The bride Daniel had no business taking.
Peter drew in a breath. How did one even begin to locate such a woman when no one around here, not even the reverend, seemed to know who she was?
* * *
Trudy couldn’t help but feel sorry for this poor country preacher. He obviously cared for his community, and the fact that he could no longer account for much of it weighed heavily upon his heart. She laid a hand on the parson’s arm, and his dark mustache lifted with a smile.
“We will do all we can to help those people who remain,” she said.
“Thank you, miss,” he said. “I am most grateful to you and the others. Your coming is such an encouragement.”
At least it is to someone, she couldn’t help but think, for despite what she had hoped had been a closing conversation, Mr. Carpenter still looked irritated with her. Or is it simply the circumstances in which we find ourselves? If that were the case, then she could understand a little of what he was feeling.
Trudy had promised Reverend Webb they would do all they could to serve this community but knew their ability to do so had been diminished severely. The crates that had disappeared en route were the most valuable they carried. The wheat, dried meat and medicines were lost. So was the seed they had brought for planting fall vegetables. Mr. Carpenter had ruefully noted that not only were these items the most valuable in aid but they would also fetch the greatest price on the black market.
“Whoever took them knew exactly what would bring the most profit,” he’d said.
Those and his previous words taunted her. “Only a foolish man would bring a child into this world.”
Whatever his opinion, it doesn’t negate the fact that there are children in this world, she thought, children who require assistance. In fact, Reverend Webb had already mentioned needy youngsters in his congregation, specifically a six-year-old boy named Charlie, and a baby named Kate. Both were now fatherless because of the war, and their mother was desperate for relief. Will we be able to provide such?
“We can wire for more supplies,” Emily said, as if reading Trudy’s thoughts.
“Yes,” she agreed, for Trudy knew the churches and aid societies back in Baltimore would again be generous. My dearest friends, Julia, Rebekah and Sally will spend long hours gathering and packing what they can. For four years now they, along with Trudy and Elizabeth, had knitted socks and sewed shirts and other items for those in need. She was confident they would again rise to the occasion.
“We will wire back to Baltimore,” Dr. Mackay said. “And we will do so straightaway. Reverend Webb says the telegraph office in Larkinsville is still in order.”
“It is indeed,” Mr. Carpenter said. “The question is, though, will the shipments arrive here intact and in time to help this community? Some of these people will not see August if they do not get regular, proper nourishment soon. If a second shipment goes missing...” He paused as if to let them consider that for a moment. “It won’t do us any good to order more supplies while someone out there is stealing them for their own profit.”
“We don’t know for certain that’s what happened,” Reverend Webb said.
“Shipments loaded on a train don’t just vanish between one rail station and another,” Mr. Carpenter insisted.
Trudy’s heart squeezed. She knew her employer had a tendency to lean toward cynicism, but she had never seen him quite like this before. His frustration over the lost supplies was now bordering on despair.
“Well, that’s where you come in,” Dr. Mackay said to him. “I trust you will discover this person or these persons responsible for the missing supplies.” He then gestured to Trudy. “And now you even have your experienced newspaper assistant to help you.”
She could feel the color rising to her cheeks. Although she had promised to help Mr. Carpenter in whatever way she could, she remembered what he had said earlier, “I can’t have you going off investigating, gathering information on your own.” Based on the irritated look he was still giving her, he obviously didn’t want to work alongside her. His words confirmed that.
“From what I have seen of the people in this community, I believe Miss Martin’s efforts will be better served in medical endeavors rather than journalism,” he said. “She was, after all, a nurse.”
“Oh?” Reverend Webb said as Mr. Carpenter left the circle of conversation. “Wonderful. Then I trust you and Mrs. Mackay will work well together.”
“We always have,” Emily said.
“Indeed,” Trudy replied.
Emily then looked to her husband. “Your orders, love?”
The barest hint of a smile tugged at Dr. Mackay’s lips. They are so much in love, Trudy couldn’t help but think. She couldn’t help but wonder if someday a man would look at her that way. It certainly won’t be Mr. Carpenter.
A self-pitying lump threatened to form in Trudy’s throat, but she swallowed it back.
“When the people arrive we will need to first assess their conditions outside,” Dr. Mackay said. “If there is even the slightest indication of typhus or smallpox, we must immediately isolate them.”
Trudy understood. She knew from experience that they could not bring patients bearing such illnesses into close contact with others. They must be quarantined. “Where shall we put them?” she asked.
“My house,” Reverend Webb said.
Trudy could tell Dr. Mackay did not like the preacher’s sacrifice any more than she, but if typhus or smallpox patients came to them, they had to be treated somewhere. Trepidation wiggled its way up her spine. What would happen if the reverend and his wife took ill? Who would nurse them? What would happen if the entire relief staff took ill?
She pushed those fears from her mind. Dr. Mackay was still speaking.
“We will need to prepare a treatment area for the noninfectious patients here inside the church,” he said. “I expect many cases of malnutrition, unhealed wounds and the like.”
Under the physician’s guidance, Trudy and Emily prepared a medical area for detailed assessment of complaints and treatment. Trudy hoped whatever they encountered would not be serious, given their minimal supplies. They had been left with plenty of soap and bandages, as well as basic surgical instruments, but the case of morphine and ether was gone.
After organizing the treatment area. Trudy helped Sarah Webb sort through what remained of the dry goods and fresh vegetables. They set allotments of equal portions for each potential visitor. Sacrificially, Mrs. Webb had also raided the last of what remained of her own supplies and prepared a soup.
“I’m sorry it isn’t more,” she lamented, “but between the Confederate requisition armies and then the Yankees, this was all I could hide.”
“You must have had a secret compartment in your larder to save as much as this,” Trudy said, trying to inject a little lightheartedness into the heavy situation, “or was it the root cellar?”
“Neither,” Mrs. Webb admitted, a hint of mirth in her face. “I reburied last year’s potatoes and rutabagas in sacks in the garden.” The smile then faded. “But I’m afraid this is the end of my resourcefulness.”
“You are out of food, as well?”
“Yes. Just about. I managed to save a few of our smallest potatoes for seed this year, but the harvest was very poor. I did come across a patch of ramps the day before you came, though.”
Trudy had never heard of ramps before, except for those used in the place of stairs. “What is that?” she asked.
Mrs. Webb again smiled. “It’s like a leek. You eat the bulb.”
“Oh?”
“They are excellent in soups.”
Trudy leaned over the pot. Even as thin as the mixture was, it certainly smelled excellent.
Across the way, Mr. Carpenter had set up a desk of sorts, one made out of a piece of salvaged wood and two sawhorses. According to Reverend Webb, he had been collecting names and basic information to locate missing family members, including reconnecting former slaves with loved ones who’d been separated during the war. Apparently he planned to publish notices about the missing in his paper, and convince fellow publishers in other cities to do the same.
It was hard not to admire a man who used his press in such a way. Trudy eyed him stealthily for a moment. Mr. Carpenter’s hair was as black as coffee. He had dark eyebrows, a slight cleft in his chin and a strong, handsome jaw. He could have passed for a rich statesman were it not for the crumpled collars and askew cravats he always wore. He had a tendency to tug at them when he worked. He disliked the confinement of frock coats as well, always preferring to roll up his sleeves. He had done so today. Trudy couldn’t help but notice once again his muscular forearms.
Catching herself, she shook off such thoughts, remembering that Peter Carpenter had proven he was not the man for her. Yes, he was handsome. Yes, they shared a belief in helping others, but he was not interested in marriage. He didn’t want a family.
And he isn’t exactly a churchgoing man, she reminded herself. Oh, she knew that he believed in God, but for some reason “organized religion,” as he put it, had “no practical use.” So how exactly has he come to know and be on such good terms with the Webbs? she wondered. Had it been some connection before the war? Her curiosity getting the better of her, she asked Mrs. Webb.
“My husband, James, nursed his brother Daniel after the battle of New Market.”
“Oh,” Trudy said, her eyes inadvertently going to the still stained floor. “Mr. Carpenter has never really spoken of him.” Although Trudy knew he had a brother. She had learned that detail during the time that she, her mother and her sister had taken shelter in Mr. Carpenter’s parents’ home outside Baltimore when the city had been threatened by Confederate attack. He has two, if I remember correctly. Daniel and Matthew.
“I suppose he wouldn’t speak much of him,” the preacher’s wife said. “It must be very painful.”
“Painful?”
“Daniel survived the battle, but wound fever took him and several other Virginia soldiers a week later.”
“I see,” Trudy said. A cold chill passed through her, but her feeling was not limited to her employer’s loss alone. Trudy knew very well that fever could have just as easily taken her own brother.
Mrs. Webb must have recognized it, as well, for she looked at Trudy sympathetically. “I thank the Good Lord that he spared your own brother.”
