The Thorn Bearer Page 5
His head came up, eyes wide.
“Do you honestly think I had some hand in this wicked crime?”
He stepped back and cleared his throat, blotches of red deepening her handprint on his cheek. “You could have told someone. Anyone.”
“Who would have believed me, Michael? My father – an elder in the church and respected gentleman in Asheville?” She wanted to scream, grab him and shake some sense into his empty head. “I was a child. I didn’t even know what was happening.”
He distanced himself by a few more steps, his face deepened to carmine. Yes, move away from the soiled woman. A surgeon’s scalpel to her chest couldn’t have hurt worse than his obvious disgust. She couldn’t ignore the past anymore.
“If you listen carefully you will hear yourself and be ashamed. He was my father.” A sob strangled her voice into a whisper. She hated tears. “How dare you blame me?”
He straightened, even leaned forward to offer a hand to her trembling arm. “That reason is enough to call off our marriage, but I didn’t. Don’t you see? I did the right thing. I was going to go through with it.”
“You are such a martyr.” She jerked away from his hold and licked the sarcasm from her lips.
“But there was something else which made my decision to leave even easier.”
She shrugged, exasperated. “Learning of my tainted past and the presence of your son wasn’t enough to break off our engagement? Please, astonish me.”
“Don’t pretend ending things broke your heart.” He stepped closer, any semblance of gentleness fleeing his expression. “I didn’t see it at first, but when I looked back on the past few months before I left, the signs were everywhere. You’re in love with Sam.”
She held his gaze, her pulse throbbing a gallop in her throat, but she refused to acknowledge his claim. How could he possibly know? She hadn’t known it until she was boarding the ship.
“Playing the part of a coward is one thing, using this shallow accusation to become a victim is quite another. Unlike you, I’ve never had a hidden attachment to someone else.” Until now. She thrust her chin forward. “Is this who you truly are? This weak man who hides his own guilt behind children and women? I’m glad I discovered it now before I spent the rest of my life—”
“I know I’m right. At first I didn’t want to believe it, but then little things kept happening. A look here, a laugh there. Doubts started creeping in.” He skewered her with a look. “A man can tell when a woman is in love with someone else.”
“This is preposterous. I never expected you to stoop so low as to use –
“And then the letter came about Stephen and I thought, why should I fess up to my flaws? Have my dirt shown to the world?” He stepped closer, his face flushed. “It was the perfect storm of situations to make my decision clear.”
The look in his eyes sliced through her breath. Haunting. “Oh, you’ve made many things clear today.” She didn’t budge, but faced him with as much fury as he shot at her. Her voice constricted to a whisper. “I should thank you for rescuing me from a marriage built on sympathy and pride, but if you think by demeaning me you will save yourself, you are wrong. Those who step on the hearts and lives of others to gain acceptance rarely leave without bloodstains on their souls.”
The last ounce of her strength shuddered. One more man trying to overpower her, except this one used pride instead of strength. Exhaustion swept over her body, taking anger’s power with her. She wiped her gloved hand across her cheeks and leveled Michael with a final stare. “You may have your judgments. You may find comfort in comparing our pasts, but know this Michael -- you have triumphed over no one today.”
She turned and walked from him. If her Promenade dress hadn’t constrained her, she would have run. Run from Michael, the past, and the truth that no man would ever want a soiled dove like her.
Sam hurried across the deck, each turn of the ship ending in disappointment. Where was she? He’d given them half an hour to finish whatever conversation they needed, but that was enough. His second turn of the ship gave no new information.
Michael’s allusion to Jonathan Dougall’s death-bed confession held a mysterious warning. Ashleigh’s quick response proved even stranger. What did Michael know? He racked his brain for memories to reveal the answer without a hint. The simple fact Mr. Dougall never nurtured a friendship with Sam’s father, despite his father’s attempts, was enough to leave a bad taste in Sam’s mouth. As Sam grew into adulthood, he finally was able to label his dislike for their neighbor. He never seemed genuine. Reclusive and sometimes moody in the privacy of his home, but a gregarious and somewhat winsome speaker when in public, Sam had watched with growing caution at the man’s duplicity.
He knew what it looked like. His mother had been the queen of it.
Sam came to a stop in front of the Verandah Café nestled near the bow of the ship. Only a few people enjoyed the breezy atmosphere of wicker seats and columns twined by faux vines. Ashleigh had made a little routine of going there to sit after her morning walk on the deck, but none of the hats resembled hers.
He leaned against the wall and looked to the horizon. God, where is she? He couldn’t shake the need to find her. Something was wrong, and now she was missing? Maybe she knocked Michael clean off the ship. Sam’s grin almost edged up at his wayward thought, but quickly stilled. No, that would have been too easy on Michael. A long life with Annette Dixon’s demanding nature would prove much more just.
“I heard from Evans, myself.”
The raised voice near him caught Sam’s attention. Two men, white jackets identifying them as waiters, stood nearby, cigarettes in hand. Sam pushed himself away from the wall to keep up his search and shy away from ship’s gossip.
“I overheard Dr. Garry talk to Johnson about munitions on board.”
The words brought Sam to a stop. Munitions? On a passenger ship? He closed his eyes in frustration. He hated war.
“Said there are boxes of it in the hold.”
The shorter man of the two tapped his cigarette and blew out a long line of smoke. “Don’t waste your breath worryin’ about munitions, Jimmy. I heard we have the promise of the British navy as escort on the way back. Once we reach the war zone, I’d like to see the Jimmies go after a fleet of our own.”
“I don’t like it.” The taller man called Jimmy shook his black head. “Let the captain gamble with his own life, but not mine.”
The men looked Sam’s way then, but Sam had heard enough. First a warning from Germany and now this? The entire situation chiseled at his peace. Top it off with the mess with Michael and it threatened to bore right into his soul.
He started back toward the stern, glancing into the Music Room as he passed. No one among the stained glass and plush red cushions resembled her. He marched through the passageway leading to the grand staircase and took the elegant steps almost two at a time, inciting a few disapproving looks from a few elderly ladies he passed.
When he reached her stateroom, the sound from inside wrenched his heart. Sobbing. In ten years of friendship, he’d never heard Ashleigh sob. She always been the one her family turned to for strength, ever controlled and thoughtful. Even when her father died, she’d barely shed tears in public, reserving a few for the solitude of her grandmother’s lounge, but nothing like the mournful cry on the other side of the door.
The next time Sam saw Michael Craven, he’d pummel him to dust.
Hope never served her well. Proof walked somewhere in first-class with a new wife and a beautiful son.
Ashleigh collapsed on her bed in a heap of tears. “I hate him. I hate him.”
She rammed her fist against the bed. Strength escaped with her tears until she dropped to her knees. Tainted. Unloved. Unloved? In one last act of betrayal, her father’s hands reached up from the grave and strangled her future.
She’d almost succumbed to the beautiful lie she’d told herself for years; the dream she could live beyond her scars, build a family on this shaky fou
ndation she kept underneath her hope, but she could never have a future with any man.
Blinking through tears, she noticed her Bible nestled in the folds of her pillows. Where were you, God? Where are you now? She pushed to a stand, pulling the book with her, her fingers wrapping like a claw around the binding. It was all a lie. Her life. Her future. Even her faith.
With one fluid movement, she threw the heavy book across the room. It thudded to the ground, and loose papers came unbound and fluttered like a fallen bird to the rug. Deafening silence followed. Her eyes burned at the irony. She was still alone and God remained as silent as he had all those terrifying nights as a child.
“You don’t care about me.” Her words caught in a broken whisper. “All those promises? All of that love? It was never meant for me.”
A sob racked through her. “All things work together for my good?” She laughed, harsh in the stillness. “You’ve lied too.” She squeezed her eyes closed. Her voice lost vibrato. “I’m ruined.”
Sinking back onto the bed, she pulled the pillow against her chest and muffled her sobs against it. “Where were you when I needed your protection the most?” She listened into the silence, frantic for anything, one ounce of solace to touch the raw ache. As absent as you are now?
She’d learned God sends rain on the good and the evil. From a child her Grandmama had not only taught about the Christians’ response to suffering, but had lived it. But Grandmama never knew this true monster of suffering, did she? God forbid anyone experience this hideous parasite of shame. Not even God wanted to listen to her.
You are not your own.
She fisted the pillow as the words whispered through her spirit. “No, I’m a puppet on a string and my father controlled it all.” She looked up to the ceiling, tears cooling her cheeks. “You say you love me? Is this love?”
Her gaze trailed the dim room and rested on her Bible, still clumped in a pile on the floor. The letter her grandmother had given her before her trip jutted from the crinkled folds of her Bible. Like the warmth of her comfort, the familiar handwriting winked from among the heap on the floor. The letter meant to encourage her as she left the wounds of Michael’s disappearance behind for the challenges of England, but could it still provide comfort? Even now, when the truth stung through her system like lidocaine?
She crossed the room on weakened legs and knelt to retrieve the Bible. As a course of habit, she smoothed back the leather binding and drew the book to her chest, begging for comfort to pass from its pages. The letter’s pages rained to the floor like tear drops, but she gathered them up. If only Grandmama were here in truth; to hold her and whisper that all would be well.
But it would be an empty promise. All would never be well again.
She sat on the edge of the bed and pressed the pages against her lap. The paper on top of the stack gripped her attention.
Sorrow and despair, whether justified or not, are anchors pulling you down below your lifeline until you drown in it – pushing out what hope has to offer you.
Her grandmother’s words fit with such perfection a tingle trembled up Ashleigh’s spine and snagged her thoughts for more.
When you grieve – pray
When you dream – pray
When you’re confused – pray
When you’re joyous – pray
But do not stay alone with your prayer. Hold it before you like a beacon and step back into your life, wherever you are, no matter how dark. Place hands and feet to your prayers by focusing on others instead of your pain or disappointments. Life holds infinitely more meaning when it is wrapped within a love for others.
Ashleigh crumbled up the letter, tears traveling down her face with new fervor. Pray? She didn’t want to pray. The few words she had for God right now weren’t appropriate in the least.
Pray.
Her grandmother’s voice whispered through her spirit and nudged at a faint glimmer of hope. False hope. Nothing could expunge her past. She squeezed her eyes closed and her grandmother’s face emerged, gray-blue eyes penetrating into Ashleigh’s shattered thoughts.
Pray and do the next thing.
Pray and do the next thing?
She didn’t want to pray.
Pray and do the next thing.
What is the next thing? Breathe? Step one foot in front of the other?
The paper pricked her hand as needling as her conscience. She tossed it to the bed, singed by the command. How could she pray? Those words were nothing more than lifeless ink on a page, but somehow they pierced into her callous spirit like a scalpel. Her vision blurred and breath surged into her lungs through sobs until she finally wiped a dampened sleeve across her face.
“I’ll do what you want, Grandmama, but not for God. For you.”
She picked up the paper and began to unfold it. Step back into your life? What life? She didn’t have anything. Certainly no future worth mentioning.
A life wrapped within a love for others?
The orphanage. Her spine straightened. She could find a makeshift family in poor, parentless children. Sam’s desire to be with Catherine? She firmed her chin.
Very well, she would do the next thing. Find joy where she could – in the lives of others. She would search for her own contentment in the happiness she could help others find.
Sam’s smile came to mind, taunting a paper-thin hope. She squelched it. After all, no man deserved half a woman for a wife. She knew society’s expectations, and there was no home for someone like her. She would live this life alone. By her own strength. Without God’s help.
Chapter Five
Michael struck again, and this time he hit a home run directly into Ashleigh’s heart.
Whatever he’d said or done left an almost visible mark on her behavior. Strangers might only see a content lady going through the activities aboard ship, but Sam knew – and she wouldn’t talk about it. Every time he’d tried to get her talking over the past two days, she changed the subject or begged for silence.
She hovered beneath a shadowed smile, but something deep and dangerous had shifted in her. A secret emerged. He hated secrets. They usually upturned lives, just like Michael’s, but what had happened? Did Michael have something to hold over her? Some hidden stain on Ashleigh’s character? One gaze into those honest eyes reminded him that she was not a deceiver … but something haunted her.
“Add eight more points to my score, Sam.” Ashleigh pointed her shuffleboard cue at him and raised a brow. “You’re not even trying.”
He placed his disc on the ground and readied his cue. He hit his disc across to score ten points, his gaze focusing in on hers. “I want to help you.”
Ashleigh’s smile froze and then wilted into a pitiful frown. “This is a private burden I must bear alone, Sam.” Her reply rasped with emotion to soften his annoyance a little.
“Alone?” Evidently she shared it with Michael. He curbed the surprising edge to his thoughts and shifted a step closer to her. “You don’t have to carry this burden alone.”
A crinkled dipped across her forehead. She bit her bottom lip and turned her attention back to the game, hitting another disc. She added eight points to her score, but the mischief in her grin didn’t reach her eyes. “Perhaps you could renew your tennis matches with Catherine once we arrive in England. It’s good exercise, an opportunity to rekindle your relationship, and…Catherine always loves winning.”
More talk about Catherine? It seemed every time he probed for an answer about her conversation with Michael, she’d resort to bringing Catherine into the conversation. She seemed determined to distance herself from him, but why? Sam missed his next shot and frowned. Losing at shuffleboard. Losing his fiancée. Losing his best friend?
Ashleigh slid the disc back across the scoring triangle and gained ten more points with a smile to show for it. It was worth every ounce of pride he swallowed. Was this what his relationship with Catherine used to look like? This easy friendship and tender affection? A few faded memories floated for
ward, but “tender” wouldn’t be a word he’d use to describe them. He remembered their kisses. Heat skimmed his collar at the thought. But the camaraderie? The simple pleasure of being in each other’s company? He’d never known anything else. She’d been the first woman to stir his heart and it became his interpretation of normal, but could it be different? Should it be? Like this?
Ashleigh’s grin turned playful, and much more genuine. “You always lose when you’re distracted.”
Fine, he’d play along, for her sake. Maybe in time she’d share her burden with him. “And this from experience?”
She tapped her cue onto the ground, the tension in her shoulders easing. “Years of well-placed distraction. Didn’t you ever wonder why I always ordered tea and cakes just as we sat down to start a game of chess or backgammon?”
“You used by appetite as a distraction?” He laughed and the affection for her pinned into a deeper place in his chest. “Nice choice. I do love to eat.”
“Know your opponent. Isn’t that the strategy?”
He narrowed his eyes with his grin. “And all this time I thought you were the sweet and innocent sister.”
Ashleigh’s eyes grew wide and all color fled her cheeks. What had he said?
His fist tightened around his cue and he moved forward. “Ash, I was only teasing.”
She excused his words with a shake of her head, avoiding his gaze. “I’m fine. I’m sorry. Please, I’m fine.”
Perhaps a distraction might work for her too. Oh, if he ever saw Michael again… He offered his arm. “Speaking of food, it’s time for the second seating at lunch. And I’m hungry.”
Her gloved hand slid in place, but her smile remained stiff and fake.