Glamorous Illusions (30 page)

Right?
I silently asked myself, staring into the mirror.

But my reflection kept me spellbound for a moment. I looked like one of them.

I thought back to the people in the city, how they'd nodded in my direction, accepting me.

Pierre, unperturbed by my story of loss and lack of resources.

As I stared into my own reflection, I searched for the girl beneath. The farm girl I could not escape—nor wished to. And for the moment, I longed for my old nightgown that smelled of home—of hay and dirt and harsh lye soap with the hint of lemon peel Mama threw in. I thought of pulling the heavy hat from my head and braiding my long hair, feeling the comforting rope of it in my hand.

The grandfather clock in the hallway began to toll, and I awakened from my reverie. I'd committed to Will and had probably made him late by now. It would be most rude to back out.

I hurried down the hall and the stairs again, wondering if Will would be agitated over my tardiness. He didn't seem in the mood to accommodate any inconveniences. The somber butler opened the massive front door for me, nodding as I passed, probably pleased that I wasn't still tarrying in his foyer. Outside waited a small buggy and one horse.

Will gave me a smile when my eyes met his, no doubt reading the surprise I felt. Until tonight, we'd ridden only in motor carriages as a party. He opened the short door and held out his hand to assist me up.

“I wasn't in the mood for a loud motor carriage this evening,” he murmured in explanation.

“That's quite all right,” I said, settling my long skirts. “Neither am I.” Two horse-drawn carriage rides in one evening… I found it soothing. A reminder of my not-so-distant past.

“Good,” he said, shutting the door and going around. He climbed in, sitting beside me, and lifted the reins. Without another word, we set off at a quick pace and indeed said little most of the way into Paris. He seemed deep in thought, and I was enjoying the relative quiet, the lack of demands on me, as much as I had my ride aboard Pierre's elaborate boat at Versailles. I closed my eyes and listened to the
clop, clop, clop
of the horse's hooves, the scrape of the wheels as they turned on their well-oiled axles, the sound as we clambered over the ancient cobblestones.

Gradually, the houses became smaller and closer together, the smells now more of city and sewage than of grass and sweet hay. Traffic increased—mostly buggies and wagons, with the occasional motor carriage. Will turned the buggy one way and then the next with confidence until we reached a fine section of the city where beautiful buildings climbed four stories high—most with ironwork in front of tiny corner gardens on the fourth floor.

“One of the better neighborhoods,” he said, gesturing around when he noted my interest.

“You have spent a great deal of time in Paris,” I stated.

He glanced over at me in surprise, then back to the road. “A good amount, yes. It was here that I came to join my uncle when I was but a boy.”

“A boy?” I asked in surprise. “Your parents let you go so early?”

“My parents had little choice,” he said gently. “They were dead.”

I lost my breath for a moment and gradually had the courage to look up at him, studying his fine profile. “I'm sorry, Will. I had no right to pry.”

“That isn't prying,” he said, meeting my gaze for a second. “That's merely friendly conversation.”

Curious now, I dared, “They died at the same time? Together?”

He nodded and paused a moment. “It was an accident. We were living outside of Minneapolis, and driving home one night, it was raining like I'd never seen. We were halfway across a creek—one we'd crossed without incident on other rainy nights—before my dad knew we were in trouble. It was deeper than before. And in seconds, water was coming into the carriage, then pushing us over. The horse tried to run, which made it worse…”

I held my breath, waiting for him to continue.

“My dad fished me out of the backseat and set me on top of the buggy, but my mom had disappeared in the stream. He told me to stay where I was while he went after her. I never saw him again. I never saw either of them again.”

I paused. “How old were you?”

“Eight. Stayed there all night on the side of that buggy, in the rain, with our dead horse, my parents gone. I wanted to jump in, die with them.” He shook his head. “I was so scared. So…bereft.”

“Eight,” I whispered. “I'm so sorry, Will.”

He pulled up, and I saw with some surprise that we'd reached the cathedral. He was staring at me—I could feel the warmth of his gaze—and abruptly, I realized that I'd wound my hand around the crook of his arm as he'd been speaking, as if to encourage him, support him. I swiftly pulled it away, but he gently took it again and looked into my eyes, giving me a tender smile. It was the smile of someone who understood the searing pain of loss, the dull ache of grief.

And in that moment, I felt more known and understood than I had in many months. Even more than I had with Pierre over supper. “I am grateful for your friendship, Will.”

He lifted his chin, just a bit, and his warm eyes assessed me. “And I am grateful for yours, Cora.”

The bells in the tower tolled, a sound that reminded me of the grandfather clock in the chateau, except a thousand times richer. These bells seemed to penetrate my rib cage and ring right inside me. But still we sat there, staring at each other. A shiver ran down my back, the memory of our moment on the boat returning, again and again, with each toll of the bell. I shifted, feeling somewhat awkward. “Shall we go inside?”

He nodded slowly and slipped his hand from mine, going around the buggy to open the door and help me step down. I was careful not to look into his eyes again. Did I not have enough to deal with in allowing Pierre's advances? Getting involved with Will would be far more complicated—especially since we were to be together for weeks upon weeks yet. No, it was best we remain friends and nothing more.

He did not offer me his arm again, electing to walk beside me, hands folded behind his back. We joined a queue of people hustling to make their way inside—mostly older women and a few men, bent over and shuffling past the crooked-nosed priest, who was chagrined at our late entry.

We slipped inside one of the last pews, which were marred by a hundred years or more of use. But the wood held a rich brown patina, burnished by countless skirts brushing by, oiled with the touch of a thousand hands. The sanctuary smelled of beeswax, and I spied massive, dripping candles on iron fixtures, all the way down either side. I glanced up and sucked in my breath, loving the colors in the grand old stained-glass windows.

The cathedral walls were perhaps seventy-five feet high, built in the Gothic style. There were twenty sweeping arches lending their support all the way down to the front. There, a massive altar rose atop a cascading series of steps, and behind it was a gold-inlaid altarpiece, a Renaissance-era painting of the Madonna and Christ child inside. Priests in black robes processed down the aisle, sending a tangy trail of incense heavenward behind them.

The priests began their liturgy, the congregation answering by memory or consulting small prayer books. Will and I only sat there, absorbing the cadence of call-and-response as the soothing balm I knew we both sought. Then came a choir of young boys, all about six to ten years old, dressed in red-and-white robes, marching forward and singing an ancient hymn in Latin a cappella. The priest at the front sang a lead in Latin, and the boys responded, gathering behind him.

Will bent and whispered in my ear. “Do you know Latin?”

I shook my head.

“Would you care for me to translate?”

There was no judgment in his tone, only warmth. “Very much,” I whispered back.

He wrapped his arm around the back of the pew, behind me, so he could edge closer. I felt the tinge of blush at my cheeks, wondering what the old women around us would think. But I closed my eyes, preferring to concentrate on the gentle, low timbre of Will's voice, the comforting warmth of his presence beside me. I was so dreadfully weary of worrying over what people thought.

“When I called out, He heard me, the God of righteousness,” Will said, pausing to listen to the next phrase. “When I was in trouble, You gave me freedom: now, take pity on me and listen to my prayer.”

The priest's voice droned on in Latin, but all I could hear was Will's voice, strong, true, steady. “Sons of men, how long will your hearts be heavy? Why do you seek after vain things? Why do you run after illusions? Know that the Lord has done marvelous things for those He has chosen. When I call upon the Lord, He will hear me.”

My thoughts immediately went to my traveling companions, the Kensingtons and Morgans. But then I was filled with guilt. Was it I who was running after illusions? After vain things? Or was I resisting the marvelous gifts that God had given me?

“Be vigorous, but do not sin,” Will went on. “Speak in the silence of your heart; in your bed, be at rest. Offer righteousness as a sacrifice, and put your trust in the Lord. Many are saying, Who will give us good things? Let Your face shine on us, Lord, let the light of Your face be a sign. You have given me a greater joy than others receive from abundance of wheat and of wine. In peace shall I sleep, Lord, in peace shall I rest: firm in the hope You have given me.”

Was I living the truth of those words? Was I living out greater joy or seeking to find what my siblings had in their worldly abundance?

“Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.”

“Lord, have mercy and hear me,” the congregation said together.

“A reading from Deuteronomy 6:4–7,” said the priest. He went on in Latin again, and Will resumed his translation.

“Listen, Israel: the Lord our God is the one Lord. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your strength. Let these words I urge on you today be written on your heart. You shall repeat them to your children and say them over to them whether at rest in your house or walking abroad, at your lying down, or at your rising.”

It was one of my mama's favorite verses, oft repeated in our household. Had I been loving the Lord with all my heart, soul, and strength? Or had I been focused on far different things?

“Into Your hands, Lord, I commend my spirit,” we repeated after the priest, reading from the hymnal.

“You have redeemed us, Lord, God of faithfulness,” said the priest.

“Into Your hands, Lord, I commend my spirit.”

“Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost.”

“Into Your hands, Lord, I commend my spirit.”

Will eased away after that, and I felt the draftiness of the old cathedral anew. But my attention was riveted on the priests and choirboys as they moved into a canticle and hymn.

Their voices rose, high and pitch-perfect, like the candles' smoke reaching for the roof. They seemed to echo in the air for seconds after they finished each segment. I closed my eyes and thought about what it meant to fully
commend my spirit
to the Lord. To trust Him in life as well as death. What it might be like to die, to see heaven, as Will's parents had. Would there be singing like this, or even something far grander? I shivered. I hoped so.

The thought of it gave me a sense of peace that entered my chest and spread to my fingertips and toes.

Will had moved on, even after losing both his parents. He was living, fully living, making his way forward. I'd been holding on, holding on to my past and in particular my papa, as if it was my duty to not let go. As if I did not stand guard over him, remain vigilant, he'd slip away for good. As if I'd forget who I really was without him. But God already had us all in His arms. He knew us, whether we were with Him in heaven or here on earth. It didn't matter if my understanding of who I was had changed—God's understanding of me had not. He saw it all, held it all.
He held me.
Through the bad. The good. He was holding me even now.

My heart sped up, trying to keep up with my racing mind. Remembering Mama and Papa's words of wisdom, as well as Mr. Kensington's letter about living at peace with God—and what he really meant by that.

It meant not living bent over by the weight of what might have been, what was supposed to have been. Not living with the burden of what had been lost, what had gone wrong, or what we'd done wrong—but rather standing straight, knowing that God still walked before us, beside us, behind us. With us. Through it all. That Christ had made right all that was wrong. Forever and always.

The last notes of the final hymn hung in the air, as if God was saying an
amen
with me. I closed my eyes and thought,
Amen and amen and amen
, seeing, in my mind's eye, Mama and Papa leaving on a train, leaning out the windows and waving. Leaving, content that we were all in the Father's hands.
See you soon
,
they mouthed.

And the thought of it made me smile.

CHAPTER 34

~William~

Cora was clearly moved by the service. Being there, gradually, Will's heart settled into a peaceful rhythm as well. He closed his eyes, trying not to think about the pretty young woman at his side, the way she'd slipped her hand around his arm in empathy as he spoke, that she'd asked to come with him, that she'd leaned into him—fitting so sweetly under the crook of his arm—as he translated the Latin.

She was a friend, nothing more. She'd never be anything more.

He'd wanted to come alone. To gain some distance, perspective, on what he'd been feeling all afternoon and evening. He'd searched for some reason to dissuade Cora from joining him but had found none. And now, he admitted, nodding toward the cross at the front, he saw why. God wanted them both there. In their own ways, they were both hurting, trying to find their way home through the grief—new and old—that shackled them. He couldn't help but wonder if God was using Cora to help him over the final hurdles. To see her making her way, rediscovering hope, uncovering true identity, gave him the courage to do the same.

The priest said his last
amen
, the boys' choir echoed their own, and the people silently rose to leave. Will made his way down the pew and waited for Cora to follow.

It was as she passed him that Will looked up and glimpsed one of the men they'd seen in the park. He turned as if he'd seen nothing, then pressed a hand to Cora's back and bent toward her. “Don't be alarmed, Cora. But we have to stay in the middle of this crowd.”

Her blue eyes shot up to meet his, and her golden eyebrows knit together.

“Steady. Keep that serene smile. Like you have nothing to worry about.”

Obediently, she did as he asked, settling her features back into an expression of calm tranquility. She trusted him, he thought. It sent a jolt of pleasure down his spine and increased his desire to protect her.

If he's even here for us. Maybe he's worshipping
, Will thought.
Maybe I've imagined it all.

But he thought not.

They moved quickly down the stairs outside, toward the horse and buggy. Will helped Cora climb inside, looking about for the man again. It wasn't until he sat down himself and picked up the reins that he spotted him still up by the church, beside a massive column, smoking a cigarette. He grinned down at Will and lifted his chin with a smile. Mocking him, almost.

Will frowned. He
wanted
Will to see him. Why?

His thoughts were a jumble of confusion as they moved out into the evening traffic heading home. As they turned the corner, Will glanced back up at the cathedral, but the man was gone.

“Will, what is it? You're frightening me.” Cora reached out to grab hold of the buggy's front wall when they bounced over a hole in the road at a fast clip.

“I saw the same man at the cathedral that I saw earlier in the park.” He glanced left and right, examining every face they passed. “He was inside with us. He'd obviously followed us there.”

Cora frowned. “Pierre told me that man was probably interested in him. Not us.”

“That's what we hoped.”

Will abruptly turned left, then quickly right, heading down a narrower, quieter avenue, out of the thick of the crowds, hoping to lose anyone who was following them—and avoid anyone who might by lying in wait. They rode in silence, nodding at the few passersby on the street at this late hour. Unlike the electric lights of the main streets, this avenue had only gas lamps. That was all right by Will. Their dancing flames seemed warm, encouraging to him.

He looked behind them and, seeing no one in pursuit, took another left and then a right. He had to get Cora to the safety of the chateau.

“Why, Will?” she asked. “Why would they be after us?”

He glanced over at her. “Forgive me, Cora, but the heirs of copper kings might make for easy ransom money.”

“But why me?” she asked, eyes wide, hand on her chest. “Why not one of the younger girls? They're more apt to wander off…”

“Maybe they see you as an easier target. The others are rather…clannish. Even the younger girls are nearly inseparable from each other. But you…you tend to trail the rest, Cora. Go off…on your own.”

“Yes, well, I decided to stop that,” she said in irritation. “To stay closer with the rest, whether they want me there or not.”

“I've noticed,” he said, tossing her a wry grin.

“But it makes no sense,” she said, shaking her head. “Why would they allow us to see them before they strike?”

“So when you disappeared, I'd know exactly who had you,” he guessed. “That you hadn't met with some unfortunate accident—but that they had you. So when the ransom letter arrived, I'd confirm it as truth.”

She thought on that for a moment. “Or could it be that they only wish to confuse us? To make us believe that I'm their intended target, when they're really after another in our group?”

He considered her theory. “Possibly.” And the more he thought on it—considering that they did not give chase—the more he feared for his other charges.

“Will, we need to get back,” Cora said, voicing his own thoughts.

“Hold on,” he said grimly, whipping the reins across the horse's back. “We'll get there as fast as we can.”