Courting Miss Adelaide. Janet Dean

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      Dropping to her knees, Adelaide blew a layer of dust off the lid, and then raised it carefully. She removed an old rust-stained quilt then pushed aside a stack of linens. Underneath she found a celluloid-covered box. She tugged it out, and then lifted the tiny brass catch to reveal a stack of handkerchiefs. “Granny must have tatted these.”

      Mary fingered the lace. “They’re lovely.”

      A visit from her grandmother had been an oasis in the desert of her life. She put the box aside to take downstairs.

      Still, no hint here to what went before. Adelaide led Mary past a dresser. Tucked behind a hall tree, she found the small trunk. She rolled it out, its metal wheels squeaking, and then opened the latch. Inside she found another quilt, a half-finished pillow slip, a Bible—Granny’s.

      Had she been foolish to think she’d find anything that would reveal her mother’s past in this dirty, stuffy place?

      About to give up, her hand brushed against paper, paper that crackled with age. “Oh, it’s my parents’ marriage license.”

      The license promised “until death do us part,” yet her parents’ marriage had ended nearly as quickly as it began. Her gaze swept over the wedding date. She gasped. January 17, 1866, not the October date she’d been told.

      “Is something wrong?”

      Adelaide’s fingers flew to her mouth. “They married six months before my birth. I didn’t know.”

      A spark of insight ignited in Adelaide’s heart. Her mother’s warnings about men now made sense.

      Oh, Mama, did my conception end your hopes and dreams?

      The afternoon sun glinted in through the window, sparking off an old mirror in the corner. Adelaide rose and walked to the window facing the street, thinking about her mother’s loss of independence and the load of responsibility she’d carried alone.

      A woman and small child, their eyes downcast, came into view. Adelaide’s pulse tripped. Emma, the orphan girl, held Frances Drummond’s hand. Dressed in black from head to foot, a veil covered Frances’s face. They stopped in front of The Ledger, then disappeared inside. Perhaps Frances had a delivery problem with the paper. Yet, something about the two troubled her.

      Adelaide turned back to Mary. “Your boys will be home from school soon. Maybe we should continue the search later.”

      Mary looked at the watch pinned to her bodice. “Oh, I should be going, but we haven’t found what you wanted.”

      “I’ll look another time.” She smiled at Mary. “But thanks, I’m grateful for your company.”

      Closing the lid of the trunk, and gathering the box of hankies and the lantern, they returned below.

      Later, Adelaide waved goodbye to Mary and Laura, then stood at the window, waiting for Frances and Emma to leave The Ledger.

      

      Charles threw down his pen and shoved aside the copy he’d tried to edit for the past hour. Even with his insides twisted into a pretzel over losing control of the paper, he couldn’t put Miss Crum out of his mind. He’d not soon forget her anger-filled eyes tinged with hurt.

      The door opened and he lifted his gaze from the paperwork, half expecting, even half hoping to find Miss Crum standing there. It wasn’t. A twinge of disappointment settled in his gut.

      His visitor wore a black gauze veil attached to her hat, hiding her face, making it difficult to identify her—until Charles spotted a little girl he did recognize peeking around the woman’s skirts—one of the orphans. Charles rose and went around his desk.

      Carrying a satchel, the woman approached with cautious steps. “Mr. Graves, I’m bringing Emma to you.”

      He leaned closer. “Mrs. Drummond?”

      “Yes.” Her hand fluttered to the veil. “I’m feeling poorly…since Mama died. Not up to caring for Emma right now.”

      “I see.” But he didn’t see at all. “What about William?”

      “Ed needs William on the farm. But Emma…” She hesitated. “Emma needs someone to see she eats right and keeps up with her schoolwork, needs someone to braid her hair.” With a gentle touch, she ran work-worn fingers over Emma’s silken plaits. “I hope you might know a good place for her until I’m on my feet.”

      Charles saw Mrs. Drummond’s obvious reluctance to let Emma go and her responsibility for Emma shifted to his shoulders.

      “I’d be glad to help.” This poor woman carried a heavy load. “I’m sorry about your mother’s…death.”

      “I can’t believe she’d…” Her shaky voice trailed off.

      Neither spoke the horrifying truth lingering beneath the conversation—suicide. He could imagine Mrs. Drummond’s regrets; guilt for not having seen it coming, for not having done more to prevent such a loss. “Can I do anything else?”

      “No.” She bent close to Emma, emitting a soft moan, and then kissed the little girl’s forehead.

      Charles took a step closer. “You seem to be in pain.”

      “I wrenched my back, but I’ll be fine.” Mrs. Drummond handed Emma the satchel. “Remember what I told you.” The little girl bobbed a promise, her face melancholy. Mrs. Drummond’s fingers skimmed over Emma’s cheeks. “I’ll be going, then.” With a hurried step, she walked out the door, leaving Emma behind.

      Emma stared after her until the door closed, then turned to him with sad eyes. Where was his assistant? “Teddy!”

      “Yeah, boss?”

      “Run to the bank and then on to the superintendent’s office and ask Mr. Sparks and Mr. Paul to come as soon as they can.”

      “Sure.” Unspoken questions packed Teddy’s gaze, but he headed out the door.

      Charles cleared his throat. “Emma, I’m Mr. Graves.”

      She looked back at him, her blue eyes swimming with tears, twisting his innards into a knot. He patted her shoulder awkwardly. “Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine.”

      He had no idea how to keep his promise.

      Tears spilled over her pale lower lashes, becoming visible now that they were wet and spiky. If he didn’t do something, she’d start bawling. The prospect sent him behind his desk. He jerked open the top drawer and rummaged through it until he found what he sought—a bag of peppermints. “When I was a youngster,” he began, “on my way home from school, I’d pass Mrs. Wagner’s house. She’d be rocking on her porch, wearing a gray tattered sweater, no matter how hot the day…”

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