Stealing Mercy (20 page)

Tilly raised up slightly on her toes and her voice trilled slightly as she said, “How lovely!”

And in her aunt’s voice Mercy heard hints of a wedding cake, flower girls, and diamond rings. She couldn’t let Tilly misunderstand or else she’d have to explain to all of Seattle that she wasn’t betrothed to Trent Michaels. “Auntie --”

“I should love to see your grandmother, it’s been a number of years, I believe, since she’s been to town.” Tilly’s eyes sparkled with wanted information. “I remember when your grandparents were the King and Queen of Seattle Society--”

“So I heard.” Trent murmured.

“And since your grandfather’s death, your poor grandmother has been very reclusive.” Tilly tapped Trent’s arm with her spectacles. “Does this invitation mean that she’s stepping back into social circles, or --” Tilly paused, her smile bright, “does this mean that –”

“It’s just tea, Aunty.” Mercy cast a frantic glance at Trent. What was he up to? “Perhaps you should join us,” she said, knowing perfectly well that her aunt detested long and bouncy coach rides.

“Oh no, dear, it’s such a long ride. Of course, it’s very beautiful along the river, quite romantic. You two will enjoy it. I wouldn’t want to be a third wheel.”

Mercy had to refrain from rolling her eyes. Tilly’d been on the verge of spouting Klum’s sermon, but when a hint of matrimony cast a pink shadow, romantic drives along the river were in order. And of course, although her aunt didn’t know it, a third wheel had already been procured, Dorrie.

*****

By mile six Dorrie began to speak without visible fear. Because her lips were still swollen, she lisped, and her eyes were shifty despite their puffy purple bruising.

“I’m still not convinced this was the best idea,” Mercy said, her nervousness mounting with every passing mile.

Trent lounged on the opposite seat, his legs occupying most of the space between them. He looked the perfect picture of comfort and ease. “We agreed we couldn’t talk at Tilly’s --”

Mercy twitched her skirt so that it wouldn’t touch Trent’s boot. “Well, of course, but--”

“We couldn’t talk in front of Chloe.”

Mercy took a deep breath, gathering steam for an argument. “But, we could have waited for Chloe to leave.”

Trent shook his head. “She’d return, perhaps unexpectedly. I don’t want to frighten her. Needlessly. And your reputation is already in tatters, your visiting my home without a chaperone would have set whatever is left of it on fire.”

Mercy gaze landed on Dorrie, and then shifted away. Dorrie looked like a battered twelve year old wearing her mother’s dress up clothes. Mercy wondered where Georgina had gotten the dress and if they hadn’t been able to find something better fitting. The fabric swam around the girl’s fragile shoulders.

Trent addressed Dorrie. “And you said you didn’t want to go out in public. That didn’t leave us with a lot options. Besides, there is a likeness of Rita at the ranch.”

“But, you’re grandmother isn’t expecting us,” Mercy put in.

Trent smiled at her and the coach seemed to grow impossibly small. “We’ve been overlooking a number of social conventions recently.”

Mercy looked out the window to hide the heat staining her cheeks. She wasn’t ready to meet Trent’s formidable grandmother. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready to meet his grandmother. She might be just another person to whom she’d have to later bid goodbye. She might be another person who would wonder what had become of Mercy Faye when she disappeared. Again.

Trent continued to pepper Dorrie with questions. The girl no longer seemed to mind. She relaxed in Trent’s company. No longer sitting ramrod straight on her seat, her shoulders stiff and her mouth a tight, narrow line, she rocked with the swaying coach and occasionally even smiled.

“A small framed girl with brown curly hair? That could describe nearly a dozen girls,” Dorrie told him.

Mercy watched the landscape slide past the window and worried about Rita’s disappearance. She tried not to listen, but in the rhythm the horses clip-clop she heard “
it could have been me, it could have been me, it could have been me
.” She listened with a grim fascination. Every so often, Trent caught her eye and so she tried to keep her focus on the trees, sheep and cattle that dotted the landscape.

She didn’t know how she felt about Trent’s grandmother. Trent had told her Hester knew about the kiss. Mercy smoothed down her blue poplin dress. Tilly had fussed over Mercy’s appearance, having, of course, the completely wrong idea about Mercy’s visit to the ranch. Mercy jiggled her foot. It couldn’t be helped. She’d thought of confiding in her aunt; she loved her aunt and had infinite trust in her good heart. It was her tongue Mercy didn’t trust. And Dorrie had been fervent about the need for secrecy. Mercy couldn’t blame her.

They rounded a small hill and Mercy let out an inadvertent small gasp. Below her, nestled in a valley of vibrant grass and yellow buttercups sat a white farmhouse with blue trim. The meadow disappeared into a ridge of alders sprouting new green leaves and a pine tree covered mountain topped with snow sat in the distance. Not far from the house lay a massive red barn. Chestnut colored horses in all shapes and sizes meandered in the meadow beyond a white split rail fence.

Dorrie’s chatter stopped and a quick look at her face told Mercy that she’d also fallen under the farm’s spell.

“Are you sure your grandmother won’t mind our sudden arrival?” Mercy asked again, licking her lips and trying to soothe her anxieties.

“We’ll find out,” Trent said. “Besides, she wants to meet you. She’s heard the rumors.”

“More than just, you know?”

Trent’s lips twitched. “No, I don’t know.”

Mercy jutted out her chin. “Well, I’ve heard rumors about her, too.”

Trent leaned towards her. “Not everything you hear is true.”

“Exactly,” Mercy said thinking back to that morning’s conversation with her aunt.

*****

When they arrived at the Michael’s farm, the food on the dining room table was still warm. Sunflowers had been arranged in a cut crystal bowl, four white bone china place settings topped with sparkly goblets sat on the white lace table cloth. The sun peaked through the spotless windows and cast a warm glow over the large dining room and steam rose from chicken stew in the colander.

“How?” Mercy squeaked. “She didn’t know we were coming, right?”

Trent shrugged. “She’s always been omniscient.” A wheat roll emitted a fragrant puff when Trent picked one out of the basket and tore it in two. “It’s a little scary, but you get used to it.”

Mercy stared at the prepared table, her skin crawling. “Are you sure you should eat that?” she asked, wondering if somehow the display of food could be an etiquette test or trick. “She must plan on returning momentarily.”

Trent popped the roll into his mouth and headed through the swinging door that led to the kitchen. Mercy watched him disappear and stood in the middle of the dining room. She could see the sitting room with its expanse of wood floors, the tall pianoforte, and the elaborately carved fireplace mantle. Windows looked out over the valley and in the distance she could see Mount Rainer. She swallowed hard. Tilly had told her Trent’s grandparents had been Seattle’s royal couple, but she hadn’t told Mercy that they were so wealthy. Mercy looked down at her modest dress. Tilly had made it, had sewn the dozens of shell buttons down the back. Tears had come to Mercy’s eyes when Tilly had given it to her. She had found the soft poplin beautiful, the hand tatted lace at the bodice and sleeves charming, but looking around at the opulent ranch house, Mercy felt tacky, gauche and misplaced.

Seconds later Trent came back through the door. “Even the cook is gone,” he said, scratching his head.

Dorrie looked frightened and pale. Her eyes darted around the room and her fingers plucked at her dress.

“It was a long drive,” Mercy said, laying her hand on Dorrie’s arm.

Trent took the hint. “Would you like to rest?”

Mercy shook her head. “I’m fine, but how about you, Dorrie?”

Dorrie sniffed and admitted she’d like to lie down. Trent led them to a library where shelves of books lined the walls floor to ceiling. After a moment of hesitation, Dorrie curled into a ball on a slipper chair and closed her eyes, but Mercy slowly circled the room eyeing the books. How long would it take to read them all? A fireplace for chilly winter nights, a bay window with a cushioned nook for summer afternoons, a card table for friends and games.

“This is like heaven,” she whispered, awed by the possibilities. “Why would anyone ever want to leave?”

Trent watched her with an unfathomable look in his eyes. “Come on,” he said, with a husky voice. “Let’s go find Gram.”

He held out his hand and she slipped hers into his even though she thought she’d changed her mind and would rather stay in the library with Dorrie. She looked over her shoulder at the girl, whose eyes remained closed.

Mercy drug her feet as Trent pulled her through the kitchen. She stared at the black and gleaming chrome cook stove, the massive oak table dusted with flour. Mercy hadn’t often thought about baking since arriving in Seattle, but suddenly, in the most elaborate kitchen she’d ever seen, her heart twisted in homesickness for the days she’d spent making pies with her mother.

Trent cast her a look as he led her out the back Dutch door and through a vegetable garden. “It’s just a house,” he said, as if he sensed her unease.

“It’s a really lovely house,” Mercy said, stumbling after him. “You must have loved growing up here.”

She couldn’t see his face, but she saw his shoulders shrug. “I didn’t appreciate it as much as I should have.” He pulled open the picket gate that separated the garden from the dirt path that led to the barn. “I wanted to go home. I missed Chicago.”

She stopped in front of him. “Could you have stayed? In Chicago, I mean.”

Trent shook his head, looking down at her. “When my parents died, I’d wanted to stay with my Aunt Arlene. I actually tried to run away a couple of times.” He laughed and pointed to the north. “Once I made it as far as the next farm. Spent the night in the Jenson’s barn. Spence Jenson found me the next day in his hay. I had a raging head cold for a week.” He pulled her towards the barn. “I was only seven.”

Mercy imagined Trent at seven, gold curly hair, light green eyes, a smattering of freckles, a city cherub thrown into the gritty world of horse breeding. She hung back. “If you had relatives in Chicago, couldn’t have stayed?”

Trent cleared his throat. “Should I trot out all the family skeletons to a girl who won’t introduce me to any of her own?”

“I don’t have secrets,” Mercy said, and then she immediately blushed over her lie. “Well, not many.”

They stopped beneath an apple tree. A small wind picked up and tossed the white blossoms scattered over the grass. Trent rubbed his thumb across Mercy’s cheek. “Uncle Aidan was a drunk. When I was young, I thought he was fun, witty, always ready to play elaborate games. I loved him and I didn’t understand why Chloe and I couldn’t stay with his family. Luckily, Grandmother understood. And, now, so do I.”

Mercy swallowed. “I’m sorry about your parents. It must have been shocking to lose them suddenly.”

“You know something of that,” Trent said.

Mercy shrugged. “My mother died in childbirth when I was eight. My parents had warned me it would be difficult. I expect they didn’t know exactly how difficult.”

Trent drew her closer to him. “If any of us knew how painful life could be--”

“It doesn’t have to be painful.”

In the nearby stable Mercy heard horses nickering. Birds chirruped in the forest just beyond the pasture. Somewhere close a squirrel chattered. She could smell the apple blossoms, the garden’s fresh turned soil, and the hay in the barn, but all she could see was Trent’s face leaning towards her and when he kissed her, she lost all her senses. His lips on hers, her fingers touching his chest, tentative at first. As the kiss deepened, her arms went around his neck, her hands touched his hair.

And then a loud voice called out, “And what new filly is this?”

Trent straightened and brushed the hair back from his face. “Grandmother,” he said after clearing his throat. “This is Mercy Faye. She’s the girl I told you about, the one helping me look for Rita.”

Hester’s eyes swept over Mercy and Mercy fought the temptation to adjust her twisted bodice. She flushed with embarrassment. This was not how she wanted to meet Trent’s grandmother. Not that she’d particularly wanted to meet her, but if she had to choose the right setting, the right time, the right circumstances, this would not be it.

Hester used the back of her hand to push back her straw hat and that’s when Mercy noticed the blood. Hester’s hands were covered in blood and so was the front of her dress. Mercy looked for a knife, because Hester looked like she’d been butchering pigs.

“Looks to me like you’re helping yourself.”

Trent stood a little straighter and his lips twitched. “I don’t need help.”

“Heaven only knows how badly you need Mercy’s help,” Hester said, chuckling. Then her eyes turned serious and she fixed Trent with an intense look. “I’m glad you’re here. We got a complicated birthing going on.
I
need your help.”