Where Courage Calls: A When Calls the Heart Novel Page 2

  “Be careful, Beth.” Then Margret forced a rather strained smile, cupped Beth’s face in her hands so she could look deeply into her eyes, and corrected herself softly. “No, I already know you will be careful. So, little sister, I’ll tell you to be brave instead.”

  Beth’s tears spilled out, and she circled her sister’s shoulders in a long embrace. “I love you, Margret,” she whispered. “Take good care of baby JW for me,” she added with a wobbly smile.

  Father was propelling them all out the door before Beth felt she truly was ready. She waved back toward her home and the little group watching from the open doorway, then ducked into the sleek automobile. Julie slipped in beside her, followed by her mother, and then her father settled into the jump seat. He nodded toward their driver, and the car rolled forward. Beth strained around for a last look out the back window.

  This would not be the first time she had traveled on the train. Grandmama and Grandpapa lived in a neighboring city, so she had been on several short family excursions for visits with them. And sometimes there were concerts or operas or lectures in nearby towns that Father felt merited a train ride.

  But for the most part Beth had done little in the way of travel—and never unchaperoned. Even at a time when long summer vacations in the United States or even Europe were commonplace for many of those in their social circle, her family had remained at home. Now Beth wished she were more familiar with the larger world—beyond the bits and pieces of knowledge she had gained from books.

  But Father, whose business it was to travel—who had spent a great deal of Beth’s childhood away at sea building a notable import company—had taken care of everything. Nothing was left for Beth to manage but the cumbersome suitcase and the heartrending good-byes. With Mother’s careful planning, there was even time to sit in the station café to share a cup of tea before the first whistle announced Beth’s approaching departure.

  On the platform, Father was the first to draw Beth aside and pull her close. He said, his voice low, “I won’t say much. I won’t be able.” He cleared his throat. “But I do want to give you this.” Drawing something from his overcoat pocket, Father produced a small brass piece.

  Beth gasped. “Oh, I can’t, Father,” she said, her hand over her mouth.

  “Please,” he insisted. “I want you to have it. I know you’ve always loved it.” That was true. Father’s compass had been special to Beth since she was a little girl, enamored by anything that had to do with her father’s work at sea—but this object more than any other was her delight. And it had been a symbol to them both of his love and guidance to his daughter.

  Then her father added huskily, “So you will always be able to find your way home.”

  Beth couldn’t breathe.

  He cleared his throat again. “I wrote a Bible verse on a slip of paper inside. Don’t forget its words, Beth. They are absolutely true, and especially for you as you begin this . . .” But he couldn’t finish.

  She threw her arms around his neck and struggled not to weep. When she felt a hand touch her back, Beth turned toward her mother and another painful good-bye.

  “It’s so hard to let you go, darling,” her mother said, obviously doing her best to keep her voice steady. “Do try to get your rest, dear. And remember to take your Scott’s Emulsion daily. I worry so about your constitution being strong enough for this endeavor. And I shall be praying each day—you know that.”

  How fully Beth knew that to be true. “I love you, Mother,” she told her, embracing her tightly.

  “Yes, dear. I love you too.” Beth leaned back and saw rare tears forming in her mother’s eyes.

  “Don’t forget, my darling, I shall want to know all about everything, and I will watch rather impatiently for each of your letters,” her mother added.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “I’m sorry, Priscilla, but it’s time,” Father prompted solemnly. “We need to let Beth get on her way.”

  Mother’s expression betrayed a pitiful sorrow. “It’s just for a year, I know. Yet that seems ever so long just now.” She dabbed at her eyes with a lace hankie, kissing Beth’s cheek one last time.

  Then Julie pushed forward and flung her arms around Beth. “I’ll miss you! I’ll miss you so much!”

  Emotions were threatening to overwhelm Beth now. She buried her face against Julie’s shoulder.

  After a moment Father interrupted. “Come, Beth. The train is just about to pull out.”

  Then everything happened at once. A porter took Beth’s case, and she turned to follow as directed. She climbed the steps into the train’s vestibule and, stopping to wave just once more to her beloved family, she turned the corner and entered the confining hallway. The porter had already disappeared around a bend not far ahead, and Beth hurried to catch up.

  The man ushered her to a private sleeping compartment, and motioning toward each of its amenities, he explained their use. However, Beth was not in a state to understand a word of what he was saying, staring around her blankly. She finally moved to the window and drew back the thick velvet curtain, only to find she was looking out on the wrong side of the train to catch one more glimpse of her family, finding instead the looming windows of another motionless train.

  Dutifully, Beth turned back to the porter and pulled out the coins Father had given her for a tip. The man doffed his funny little hat and pulled the door closed behind him.

  She had never felt so alone.

  CHAPTER

  2

  BETH PASSED THE LONG DAY watching the countryside slide past her window, reading half-heartedly, and eventually venturing out to find her way around the train. Covered vestibules between cars helped to make these walks feel more secure. But she was far too conscious of the train’s speed to fully trust her balance, especially as she stepped over the demarcation separating one car from the next—and when a curve sent the cars to jostling and swaying.

  The many stops at towns large and small along the way would have provided some diversion, but Beth dared not disembark even for a short walk for fear of not being safely on board again before the iron beast, spitting steam in a most forceful manner, glided away.

  The dining car was an elegant restaurant on wheels, though she wondered what she could possibly eat without further upsetting her fluttering stomach. The constant clatter of the wheels on the tracks, along with the motion from side to side, left her feeling slightly queasy much of the time. Surveying the menu, Beth quickly ruled out trying to spoon soup to her mouth without a disaster on her clothing or the tablecloth. Instead, she chose some tea along with a pastry roll and tore off little bites as she half listened to the amiable chatter of two women at a table directly behind her. Their cheerful voices served only to increase her loneliness. If only she were sharing the table with her own family.

  Forlorn, Beth allowed her gaze to take in the rest of the passengers. What type of fellow travelers would journey so far? Clearly this car would cater only to the wealthy heading west. Others who were less affluent would eat sack lunches while sitting in the humbler seats of their passenger cars. Beth frowned at the familiar guilt of being surrounded by luxury when she knew others were not given such privileges.

  To her left was a table where one lone, suited gentleman dined. Beth noted his rumpled jacket and dusty shoes, a clear contrast to the refined air of the man himself. Beth suspected that he might have been having a difficult time traveling too—that he was out of his familiar element. It made her wonder if others around could perceive as clearly that she felt entirely out of place and alone.

  At the table in front of her was a young woman with two children. One little boy was sitting quietly, though he appeared rather sullen. The second was a bundle of energy, driving his mother to distraction. Just as she would reprimand him for one action, he would think of something equally mischievous to take up. In just the few moments that Beth observed their table, he had knocked over the crystal salt shaker, dipped his linen napkin into his water glass, and kicked
at the wall repeatedly, leaving several scuff marks on the paneled wood. Edward was just like that when he was the same age, mused Beth, then found herself blushing for such a judgmental attitude.

  Earlier in the summer she had heard a rumor that Edward Montclair’s father had given him an ultimatum in hopes of encouraging him to take life more seriously and to assume some responsibility for his own livelihood—join the Mounted Police or sign on to one of the many ships owned by his father’s company—and not in a position of importance either, but as a regular lowly sailor. Beth was not surprised to hear that Edward had chosen the force, though she had rolled her eyes and gossiped to Julie, “I’m amazed they were willing to take him.” She blushed now, remembering the less-than-gracious words, and silently wished him well wherever he might find himself employed.

  Her thoughts returned to the young mother and her tired face. She does have her hands full. For a moment Beth considered asking if she could be of assistance in any way, but quickly convinced herself that her offer would be more embarrassing than helpful.

  The couple seated across from the little family listened to the ruckus with rather stern faces. Beth could tell by their stiff postures and grim expressions that they did not approve of such a display. They were older and probably had already raised their own children. Periodically the husband would clear his throat and his wife would answer with an ever so slight shake of her head to express her shared perturbation. But they neither spoke to one another nor made eye contact. Instead the rhythm of fork to mouth never ceased, almost keeping time with the swaying of the train.

  The sound of laughter came again from the ladies dining together, and then their voices from behind Beth carried forward. “My mother would never have allowed me to behave so atrociously,” one whispered.

  “I wouldn’t have stayed in my seat long if I had tried. My daddy would have marched me right outside for a ‘chat’—if you know what I mean.”

  Beth hoped their exchange had not been overheard by the young mother.

  “Your father?” came the retort. “I don’t believe it. Charlie always said you were your daddy’s favorite—the apple of his eye. To hear him talk, I can’t imagine that your daddy ever spoke to you harshly. Believe me, your brother says he got more than his share of your daddy’s wrath.”

  “Don’t be fooled. Charlie remembers things the way he wants to remember them. I suppose we all do.” The woman laughed. “And then we spend the rest of our lives basing the way we think about our families on what we thought happened—instead of what really did.”

  What a provocative thought. Beth turned it round and round in her mind, musing silently as she stirred at her tea. Could it be true of my childhood too? And if so, how would I ever realize the error in order to correct it? All at once memories of home came rushing back to Beth so quickly she could almost forget everything around her. The faces she had left behind at the train station were safely fastened in place in her memory. Father, one arm pulling Mother close against him, the other waving slowly as she boarded. And Julie’s tears flowing unchecked over her cheeks.

  Then more memories followed. Father in the parlor behind his newspaper, Julie in the sunroom sketching some new image, even Margret during their frequent visits—up in the nursery rocking JW to sleep while husband John leaned over her shoulder to smile at his son. And of course Mother moving deftly through the house, presiding competently over all. Beth pictured the attic where she and Julie had found such lovely isolation as schoolgirls, whispering and planning the great adventures they were certain to share. Even the long-ago nursery, with favorite toys and special books lining its tidy shelves.

  A slow tear escaped Beth’s clouded eyes. She hurried to dab it away with the corner of her napkin. But nostalgia had already taken hold, and she found herself reveling in the images. Her earliest memory came easily to mind, washing over her with a warm sense of safety and pleasure.

  She recalled with vivid clarity the feeling of cuddling on Father’s lap when he retreated in the evening with a book to his overstuffed chair, Beth having come fresh from a bath ready to say good-night, hoping that Mother would not rush her too quickly off to bed. Father would pull one side of his silk lounging jacket around Beth’s small shoulders and she would tuck her bare feet deep inside the folds on the other, pressing her tiny ear against his broad chest and listening to his deep voice reverberate as he shared aloud with her from whatever he had been reading.

  Pausing a moment to contemplate, Beth was certain she could have been no more than three at the time. That old chair, she thought, smiling to herself. How Mother despised it. There were relatively few times when Father had put his foot down, particularly in regard to home furnishings in their fine Victorian residence. Mother had filled it with beautiful objects small hands were not allowed to touch. But because of Father’s insistence, the chair remained. And in Beth’s mind it belonged to the two of them only. Whenever he was home from his travels, it was their little haven in Mother’s perfectly ordered world where even the nursery was arranged just so, and Polly the nurse was instructed to keep toys picked up as soon as Beth or big sister Margret had laid them aside.

  With fondness Beth recalled too the precious brass compass, perched on the table beside Father’s chair. Sometimes he would allow her to hold it—smooth and cold, heavy and mysterious, its tiny needle spinning and bobbing at will.

  When she had been a bit older, Father had told her the story of how the simple yet vital little instrument had brought his ship’s crew safely home during a frightening and dangerous storm at sea. Father had demonstrated that the pointer always turned toward magnetic north—no matter which way the box was held. “The compass needle tells the truth, Beth, even in a storm. And then one must adjust the rest of one’s circumstances in accordance—even though sometimes it feels amiss. It reminds me that the Bible is like that too. It tells us the truth, and then we must adjust our thinking, our actions, to match.” The deep significance of the compass made Beth even more determined to keep careful watch over such a family treasure on this year-long adventure.

  A riot of noise drew Beth’s attention. The mother was gathering her boys to leave the dining car and having much difficulty now in coaxing the troublesome one from his chair. With terse commands interspersed with hushed begging from his mother, a slow smile crept across the boy’s face when at last he slid slowly from the seat. It was readily apparent that he enjoyed the attention his behavior was drawing. He tossed his napkin to the floor and eyed his frazzled mother as if daring her to make a scene.

  Suddenly the youngster became aware of the maître d’ towering over him. The smirking eyes grew wide at such an imposing form. But the man smiled kindly to the mother, then placed a hand firmly on the boy’s shoulder and reached far down to the floor beside him to lift the discarded napkin, calmly placing it on the table, where it belonged. Stiffly, the lad fell in line behind his mother while the maître d’ called after them cheerfully, “Have a good evening, madam. We’ll see you in the morning for breakfast.” It was an unexpected kindness. The beleaguered mother managed a feeble thank-you in return.

  Beth pushed back her plate, deciding to abandon the remains of her meager supper. By the time she returned to her sleeper, the porter had prepared her bed, and she anticipated settling into it and passing the time with a good night’s sleep. But the rumble of the wheels and the rocking motion made it almost impossible for her to remain asleep. She rose several times for a drink of water or just to stretch restless limbs, returning to her bed only to struggle further for a comfortable position that might elicit sleep.

  All at once Beth’s eyes opened wide in fright, a flash of flickering light filled the cabin, and then—only darkness. For several hazy moments she struggled to grasp where she was. There was only a suffocating fear pressing down on her until, at last, her mind cleared enough to recall and understand. It had been a nightmare. In reality she was still on the train and headed west.

  She threw aside the blank
ets and rose to a seated position, wiping the perspiration from her forehead with the sleeve of her nightgown. Outside in the passageway, Beth could hear footsteps and then became aware of the heavy drone of rain on the roof.

  It was a familiar enough dream—one that had haunted her since childhood. Perhaps she should not be surprised at its reappearance at a time when she was so unsettled and anxious—and when her thoughts had been reveling in childhood memories.

  It began as always with a vision of the snow-white bassinet. Slowly the tiny childish version of herself would make her way across the room to peer inside at baby William, her precious infant brother. But as her gaze lifted over the side expectantly, she found the bed empty, and the horror of those tragic days descended anew. Immediately in the nightmare, a bout of uncontrollable coughing overcame Beth, leaving her desperately laboring to breathe, crying out silently for her absent father, hearing nearby the sound of Mother weeping. And in that state she would awake, gasping even now to draw a satisfying breath.

  Whooping cough—it had stolen away Mother’s baby, her little Sweet William. And it had forever altered Beth’s world, leaving her own small body frail and sickly, and causing Mother to hover and brood and stifle. From that moment on Beth had suffered under the limitations that the illness had effected. Now she tried to shake away the terrible emotion of it all—to remember where she was and why. How troubling that as she took this momentous step toward independence and accomplishment, the nightmare had returned with its suffocating fears. Beth found it even more difficult to sleep again.

  When morning finally arrived the rain had stopped, but daylight revealed another dismal, cloudy day. There were few choices for an engaging pastime. Beth set herself to read until even she—an ardent reader—had lost interest. She wandered a little and sat frequently in the dining car. But she could not escape the gloomy shadow that hung over her nor the agitated, turbulent thoughts about where she was going . . . about the enormous unknown ahead.