A Bride at Last (10 page)

Sharing his budding feelings would not help Anthony through this rough time, would it? Knowing someone else loved him wouldn’t help him adjust to life with Richard.

No, better to hang on to that thought and pray he’d get to tell him after he was awarded custody.

Back in his room, Silas picked up the journal on top of the pile and flipped through it again, hoping somehow he’d missed a line that would be the miracle he’d prayed for.

Of course, maybe he didn’t need to find a miracle in these pages. Maybe God would provide one in the form of a concerned and discriminating judge.

But he forced himself to scan through Lucy’s entries again anyway—the depression, self-loathing, and unflattering descriptions of Anthony and every other man Lucy had harped on hadn’t changed. The few wickedly biting descriptions of him made the hollowness in his chest rise to choke him.

She’d not written one thing about wishing for forgiveness, nothing about loving her son, nothing worth passing on to Anthony.

Nothing.

He shut the journal and closed his eyes.

Oh, Lord, I’ve
sought your forgiveness for our past together, but now I ask you to forgive me for not praying more for her well-being. If I’d prayed for more than
her to come back, maybe Anthony would’ve been treated better—not that I knew there was a boy who
needed my prayers, but still, she was my wife, and I prayed more for me than her.

He dropped the journal back onto the pile and headed downstairs, his stomach revolting against the idea of eating but grumbling just the same.

Should he bother to pack the journals or throw them into the fire?

If someone handed him his own mother’s journals, would he want to read them? What if they confirmed the hardheartedness he’d come to believe defined her? Would it make him feel better? What if she was a really nice woman and he a victim of terrible luck? Would he mourn the years of his life spent reacting to a lie of his own making?

Despite his dreary thoughts, he forced himself to smile at Myrtle as he passed her, but he couldn’t keep his lips curved up when Richard’s bellow for more salt rang across the room.

Did he really want to eat with him today?

“The meat’s overdone.” Myrtle brushed past him, heading back to Richard. “But it’s more tender than Mr. Fitzgerald—that’s for sure and for certain.”

Seems it was possible to smile a bit despite the man’s presence. “Thanks for the warning.”

Myrtle slapped down the salt, pivoted, and rushed past him again, talking as she went. “But the pumpkin pie’s good. Had a slice this afternoon.”

Richard’s hair looked damp, so he likely smelled better than usual. However, Silas chose a chair next to a man reading his paper at the far table.

Stretching his arms, Richard groaned loudly, as if everyone
needed to hear his protest. “So the day’s finally come to quit playing and get back home, eh, Mr. Jonesey?”

Evidently sitting at a different table didn’t mean he could avoid talking to Richard. Unfortunate.

Silas gritted his teeth, but the urge to say something nice to the man overwhelmed him. Had to be the Holy Spirit, considering last night he hadn’t even been able to look at Richard when they’d passed in the hallway.

Could he even come up with anything nice to say?

“Thank you for . . . allowing Kate and Anthony so much unhindered time this week.”

Richard shrugged. “I’m not a complete monster. I know the boy likes her.”

He wanted Richard to be a monster. He wanted to believe Kate’s awful stories because it gave him hope that the judge would see the man as pure evil and award Silas a son.

Though maybe Anthony would be all right no matter who took him home today.

“A boy who’s happy is compliant.” Richard stuffed a piece of beef in his mouth.

A happy boy would be more willing to steal. Always a silver lining.

“Had a good run at Lucky’s this week. Going home with my pockets twice as heavy, so no problem, regardless of the decision.”

Staring at his charred beef flank, Silas urged himself to ignore Richard for the rest of the meal.

But the prodding to talk to the man was still there. Maybe Richard would be his miraculous answer to prayer?

What would it hurt to try to talk him out of taking the boy? “I’m glad you’re concerned about Anthony’s happiness. I’m sure you can see he’s attached to Miss Dawson and would rather—”

“Who cares about her? He’s going home with you or me.”

“Right, but I happen to know why you want Anthony.” He gave the man a penetrating look.

Richard didn’t so much as shrug or look apologetic. “You mean, because he’s my son? You’re not planning to accuse me of something crazy at the hearing just for your gain, are you?”

“My gain would only be to have a boy to care for. I’ve never had family of my own.”

“Children don’t turn your life into some happy land filled with roses.”

“So, then, if children mean so little to you, what would encourage you to turn him over to me?”

Myrtle sidled in between them replacing Richard’s dirty dinner plate with dessert. Her big brown eyes were alert, looking between them both as if leery of a fight.

But there’d be no fight; hopefully the only thing that took a hit was his pocketbook.

Richard stared at him for a few seconds before stabbing his fork into his pie. “I think the judge will find it mighty interesting you’re trying to buy the boy as if he was some slave. What do you think, missy?”

Myrtle startled, a fork slipping off the plate she’d picked up. “That it ain’t none of my business—that’s what I think.” She scurried off and Richard huffed.

“I’d not be wasting any more of your breath on that bloke.” The man next to Silas, his head tucked behind a newspaper, had a deep roll of a Scottish accent. He glanced at Silas with tired eyes as he turned the page of his paper. “He’ll only turn your words against ya.”

Silas sighed, a hint of a headache coming on. Ignoring Richard’s lip-smacking proved harder than ignoring the late-night skitter of rodents within the flimsy walls of Mrs. Grindall’s lovely establishment.

Thankfully, within a space of a few minutes, Richard finished his food and wadded his napkin. “See you in an hour.”

A dull thudding throbbed against his temples as Silas forced himself to respond. “Do you want to take Anthony to the courthouse or shall I?”

“You’ll want to since it’ll be the last time you see him.”

Was Richard trying to be kind or just taking advantage of someone else getting the boy ready? “Thanks.”

Once Richard left, Silas picked up his fork and poked at his now cold meat. Maybe he could have Myrtle warm it. He glanced around the dining room but didn’t see her.

A man called for tea, but the swish of skirts and approaching footsteps barreling through the hallway didn’t sound like Myrtle.

“What’s with the hollering?” Mrs. Grindall came in, a severe frown weighing down her cheeks. “Where is that girl?” She stomped to the sideboard then thumped the pitcher down on the man’s table. “There.”

“I could’ve gotten the pitcher myself if that’s all you was going to do.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Mrs. Grindall glared at the man, then turned heel.

How did Lucy and Anthony last so long in this establishment? Pushing away his half-eaten meal, Silas blew out his breath and left.

At the top of the stairs, he knocked on Anthony’s door. “I’ll be back for you in an hour.”

After no answer, he glanced inside. The crates were haphazardly filled with lady’s clothing. Evidently the boy hadn’t been taught to fold. He glanced at Anthony curled under the covers and backed out quietly. Might as well let the boy sleep.

In his room, he ignored his growing headache and picked up the journals, carrying them downstairs to the vacated kitchen. Though
Mrs. Grindall would surely chastise him if she found him in here, he opened the grate and fed the fire handfuls of ripped pages.

“Anthony it’s time.” After no answer, Silas pushed inside Lucy’s room. Her clothing was strewn about the place as before, but Anthony was no longer curled up on the bed.

Silas sat down and began folding the items they’d give to Myrtle. By the time the boy returned from the necessary, they’d have to leave.

Checking through all the drawers and under the furniture, he found another of Anthony’s stockings.

Wait. Where was Anthony’s traveling bag? His heartbeat accelerated.

He tossed aside the one dress still sprawled across the floor. The brown bag he’d bought Anthony yesterday was not there. He checked behind Kate’s things, under the bed, cot, and wardrobe—nothing. He ran across the hall to his room to see if Anthony was there.

No.

The boy couldn’t be as foolhardy as his mother.

He flew down the stairs. A muffled “Quit your stomping!” didn’t slow him. He slammed out the side door. Running to the necessary, he pounded hard enough the door bounced. The man inside assured him with colorful language that he was not Anthony.

Silas ran down one alley, looked both ways on Morning Glory, saw no hint of a child walking among the sparse street traffic, and then ran down the other alley. Back at the side door, he hollered, “Anthony!”

Nothing.

He called for the boy through the building on his way to the dining area. Deserted.

He poked his head into the kitchen, where Mrs. Grindall sat peeling potatoes. “Have you seen my boy?”

The proprietress only had time to shake her head before he raced back up the stairs.

Maybe Richard had changed his mind about taking the boy to the hearing without telling him.

Silas worked at calming his erratic breathing. He thumped on Richard’s door, and it swung inward with the force.

“Wha—!” The man frowned at him from where he was stuffing something into a trunk atop his bed.

“Where’s Anthony?”

“How am I supposed to know? You said you were taking him.”

He rubbed a hand down his face and turned back into the hallway. Perhaps he’d missed the boy returning from the necessary or saying good-bye to Myrtle or swiping a cookie . . .

In the hallway, something white lay wedged in a floorboard under his door, shivering in a draft. He snatched it up, hoping somehow a torn bit of Lucy’s journals had clung to his clothing earlier and dropped.

But the writing was definitely not her swirling, cramped penmanship—but a child’s.

Tell Miss Dawson not to worry about me and not to come after me. I can do just fine by myself.

Silas crumpled the note and groaned.

He slammed his fist against the wall, wincing at the splintering crack of wood and the pain shooting up his elbow. The boy couldn’t have gotten far. Silas ran to Richard’s room and thrust the note at the man. “Seems Anthony decided he didn’t want to attend the hearing.”

“What?” Richard took the paper from his hand and stared at it.

“I’m going to the school to make sure he isn’t with Miss Dawson. Then I’ll . . . I don’t know. I’ll rent a horse and go up and down the streets.”

“I’ll go to the courthouse to explain.” Richard stuffed the note into his pocket.

“Let’s meet at the schoolhouse after Miss Dawson dismisses class at three twenty. Hopefully one of us will have found him by then.”

At Richard’s nod, Silas raced down the hall, his heart thumping so hard it felt close to breaking his rib cage.

Lord, help me find him. You and I both know
what dangers lie out there for a young boy alone.

Chapter 7

“Let’s erase that.” Kate picked up her student’s slate. “You can’t forget to carry the one, no matter how many numbers are in your problem . . .”

The door behind Kate opened. Was the hearing already over? Was Anthony . . . ? Her heart crawled into her throat as she turned around.

Silas stood in the doorway—alone. A few of her students began whispering, and his appearance certainly warranted whispers. His shirt was barely tucked, the laces of one boot undone, his hair mussed to the side.

His gaze razed the room. “Has Anthony been here?”

“No.” Her throat went dry. She touched Arvilla’s poofy-sleeved shoulder and handed the little girl her chalk. “Try again, dear. I’ve got to talk to Mr. Jonesey.” She gave the children her teacher glare. “Back to work, boys and girls.”

Once half of them seemed to obey, she shooed Silas into the hall.

Outside the classroom, he leaned against the wall, letting his head tip back against the hard plaster. “He ran away.”

Her breathing quickened. “What do you mean, ‘ran away’?”
She glanced at her timepiece. “The hearing can’t be over already. How could he have run away?”

“He ran before the hearing. I checked on him after lunch, and he’d started packing his mother’s things, but when I went back to take him to the judge . . .” Silas ran his hands through his hair, then huffed. “Surely he’d say good-bye to you first, right?”

Kate bit her lip, her insides as heavy as the weight bowing Silas’s shoulders. Anthony couldn’t be gone—not without her.

“Don’t play with me, Miss Dawson. If you’re hiding him—”

“I’m not.” Though she had thought of different ways to sneak off with him after the hearing, those plans involved an adult being with him, not him being alone. “I wouldn’t hide him from you.”