Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series) (3 page)

“Yes, ma’am. His name’s Roger. Grandfather preached a sermon yesterday about charity and giving alms to the poor, but I didn’t have money, and Roger was cold and didn’t have any shoes, so I gave him mine.”

Abner broke into a pleased smile. He pulled at his goatee.

A few seconds of silence passed in the entryway. Joshua supposed his mother-in-law was still stunned. He suppressed a smile. Since leaving Uganda, the boy had been so lethargic that Joshua welcomed almost any evidence of his formerly lively personality.

“That’s very good of you.” Ruth’s voice softened. “I’m proud of you for doing such a charitable act for someone who’s less fortunate. I’m also pleased you listened to your grandfather’s sermon. Given the way you kept wiggling and looking all over the place, I assumed your mind was. . .elsewhere.”

“No, ma’am. I listened. Grandfather is very grand when he orates.”

Abner’s cheeks suffused with what was clearly pleasure.

Charitable did describe the boy.
Micah was prone to sudden acts of generosity, like the time his mother had baked a cake for the bishop’s annual visit, using up the last of their carefully hoarded sugar. When Esther went to the kitchen to serve the dessert, she discovered the cake had vanished—taken by Micah to give to a starving mother with two emaciated children.

Esther had
not
been pleased. Only the bishop’s presence prevented her from boxing Micah’s ears. But later, she’d sent him to bed without his supper, although Micah remained unrepentant for his action.

But in this case, Joshua suspected Micah had not acted on impulse, but had deliberately chosen a clever way to get rid of his hated shoes—one that wouldn’t get him into trouble and would benefit someone else.

“We’ll buy a new pair tomorrow. But next time, Micah Norton—” Ruth’s tone firmed “—do
not
give your new shoes away.”

“Yes, Grandmother,” Micah said, sounding contrite—or perhaps resigned.

Half appalled and half admiring of his son, Joshua could only shake his head.
What am I going to do with the boy?

“However. . .” Ruth’s voice eased into indulgence. “We will put your old shoes in the poor box in the broom closet.”

Joshua suppressed a laugh. He doubted the shoes would remain in the poor box. Micah hadn’t outgrown them, and the pair was comfortable. They’d end up back on the boy’s feet in no time.

“Now, go up to your room,” Ruth ordered. “Start on that history chapter I told you to read. After supper, I’ll question you about the material to see how thoroughly you’ve learned the lesson.”

“Yes, Grandmother.”

The two men waited until the sound of the footsteps on the stairs died away.

Abner stood and closed the double doors before taking a seat. “The scamp,” he said in an indulgent tone. “I’m pleased about Micah’s understanding of the importance of charity. He’s very like his mother in that regard.” At the mention of his daughter, the man’s voice grew gruff. He paused.

Joshua remained silent. Esther had some worthy qualities, but he’d come to see his wife wasn’t particularly charitable—
at least not in her heart. While living in Cambridge, she’d bestowed alms aplenty—easy to do when you came from an affluent family. But once they moved to Africa and had to eke by with limited resources, the generosity of spirit he’d thought his wife possessed had withered like the African grasses in summer.

“Now, Joshua.” Abner cleared his throat. “We need to have a talk about your future.”

My future
. Joshua wasn’t ready to discuss the topic with his father-in-law. Abner would only disapprove of his plan to move to Sweetwater Springs for Micah’s sake. The boy hopefully would thrive in a small rural community like they’d had in Uganda. Joshua had experienced a loving, happy childhood growing up in the freedom of the West, and he hoped his son would, too.

“Did you receive the letter from me about the death of Ruth’s brother, Upton?”

Joshua remembered meeting the man nine years ago at his wedding—one of a spate of Esther’s relatives who’d descended upon them for the event. That had been a whirlwind time, what with graduating, marrying, and leaving for Africa all within a week. Esther had gotten pregnant right away, perhaps on their wedding night. He’d been happy then, filled with enthusiasm, strength, purpose, and love.
How had all those feelings evaporated?

“I’m sorry to hear such sad news, sir.” Joshua shook his head. “I know Ruth and Upton were close. My condolences to you both.”

“Yes, his death, then our daughter’s. . . .” Abner’s voice faltered before strengthening. “Ruth is a strong woman. Perhaps it helps that we hadn’t seen Esther for so long. It’s easier to pretend she’s still in Africa, even though we know differently.”

Joshua tried to hide his surprise.

“Did you think to hear me say something pious about Esther being in heaven? There’s no need to state such an obvious belief.”

“I understand. I felt similarly over some of the losses my parents wrote me about. In my mind, everyone in Sweetwater Springs is still as young and alive as I left them.” Joshua paused, thinking how to put his thoughts into words. “Sometimes, there’s so little comfort in a loved one’s death,” he said in a careful tone. “We must use whatever we can. For me, it’s that Esther is released from suffering. And. . .” He decided to be somewhat truthful. “That Micah and I are also. . .released. Not from the pain of her loss. But her dying was a torment to us, as well.”

“I’m sure you took good care of my daughter.”

The horror of seeing her suffer. . .his strong wife reduced to skin and bones. . .her constant pain. . .passed through Joshua’s mind. They hadn’t been close for many years. Esther had been difficult to live with—critical, even cold—but her suffering had moved him to pity and kindness. “In the last months, except for Sunday service, I hardly left her side,” he said, still possessed by the memories.

Abner cleared his throat. “Just as well you and Micah have returned home. The boy needs a mother. I’m sure Ruth will select several worthy candidates for you to consider.”

Joshua choked on the sip of coffee he’d just taken.
Another woman like Esther, God rest her soul, is the last kind of wife I want.

Abner didn’t seem to notice Joshua’s reaction. “I don’t know if you recall. . .Upton’s wife and child died many years ago, and he never remarried. He left his considerable fortune to his nephews and nieces. Of course, split eight ways. But it’s still a tidy sum. I took the liberty of placing the bulk of the inheritance into a trust for Micah; however, there’s enough left for the two of you to live comfortably, as well as give generously to charity.”

Dazed by the news, Joshua held up a hand to stop Abner from saying anything more. He needed time to absorb the information—to get past his first instinctive rejection of the inheritance. The money should have been Esther’s. “This is quite a shock.”

“I understand.” Abner rose, crossed to his desk, picked up a folder, and returned. He handed the folder to Joshua. “Here are the papers.”

Joshua accepted the folder and laid it next to him on the settee. He didn’t like how his father-in-law had taken control of Micah’s inheritance. He’d carefully study the details later.

“Now, for the next order of business. Even though that—” Abner gestured toward the folder “—gives you the means to live in your own establishment, Ruth and I would like you two to make your home with us.”

No!
With effort, Joshua kept the word behind his teeth and schooled his expression. “I’m my parents’ only son,” he reminded Abner in a mild tone. “And Micah is their only grandson.”

His father-in-law nodded. “You have a duty to visit them,” he agreed. “I’ve decided you should take Micah and spend the summer with your family before returning in time for the start of school.”

“Well, sir—”

“My next bit of news is that I’ve obtained a position at the college for you. We need a professor of missionary studies.” Abner beamed at Joshua, obviously expecting him to be pleased.

Joshua stared at his father-in-law in astonishment. Teaching at the college had never even occurred to him as a possibility for his future. All he wanted to do was to go home to Sweetwater Springs and heal. Restore his relationship with his son.

Resentment flickered at how Abner was trying to control him, at the older man’s belief that he knew best.
He still sees me as the young seminary student—his protégé. He doesn’t understand—how could he—the toll Africa has extracted from me.
“I don’t know about that, sir.” Joshua strove to keep his voice steady.

Abner waved a hand in an
I understand
gesture. “The news is sudden. But it will give you something to look forward to while you’re out West.”

Something to dread. How can I explain this malaise I’m feeling? I don’t even understand it myself.
Joshua decided to be blunt. “I’ve lost my fire, Abner,” he confessed. “I’m worn out. Hollow inside. An old man in a thirty-one-year-old’s body.”

Abner reared back as if Joshua had struck him. “Nonsense! You just need some time of prayer and renewal is all. You’ve put too much energy into ministering to those heathen, which is well and good. But you’ll find doing God’s work is easier in your own country. Once you recover from Esther’s death, you’ll be fit as a fiddle.”

It’s more than just her death.
Joshua opened his mouth to say so.

Abner held up a hand. “I know what you’re going to say. . .recovering from the loss of a fine wife like my daughter doesn’t happen overnight. You two had a marriage of true affection and compatibility.”

Joshua closed his mouth. Speaking the truth would only cause Abner pain.

“Ruth and I will pray for you. All you need is some time, Joshua. I’m sure by the start of the semester, all will be well. You’ll return from Montana feeling invigorated, filled with the spirit of the Lord, and ready to start pursuing what God has put in your heart.”

“Right now, all that is in my heart is my son’s well-being.”

“As it should be.” Abner sat back in the chair, his expression smug.

Perhaps he’s right about Micah.
Although Joshua didn’t think so. Now wasn’t the time to battle with his father-in-law. Once he returned home, had more energy, made a plan for him and Micah, he’d deal with Abner about the future.

CHAPTER TWO

New Orleans, Louisiana

May, 1895

I
sadora Fortier burst through the doorway of Delia’s bedroom, startling her from mending a shirtwaist. “Marcel Dupuy has made me an offer to make you his mistress
.
” Her mother’s brown eyes gleamed with unusual excitement. “Get up at once and go to the parlor where he awaits.”

“What?” Isadora’s words buzzed in Delia’s ears.
Mistress?
She dropped her mending into her lap and gaped. “Monsieur Dupuy?” Just saying the man’s name sent a frisson of fear down her spine.
Surely my mother doesn’t mean for me to become the mistress of one of the most notorious plantation owners in the region?

“Don’t just sit there with your mouth open, Delia,” Isadora commanded sharply. “We can’t keep Monsieur Dupuy waiting.”

Delia had no desire to go anywhere near the wealthy man who played an influential role in New Orleans politics. Even she had heard whispers of the dark tales about the man.
No. No, not him!

When
Delia didn’t move, her mother took three quick steps and grasped Delia’s arm, yanking her to her feet. “Don’t dawdle, girl!” Isadora snapped, stepping back to survey her daughter from head to toe. “Well, that dress you’re wearing will have to do. You need some color.” She pinched Delia’s cheeks. “And your
tignon
is crooked.” She straightened Delia’s green cotton headscarf, then pulled her through the doorway and gave her a firm push to propel her down the hallway.

Still feeling the imprint of her mother’s hands in the middle of her back, Delia moved as slowly as she dared. Her heartbeat sounded so loudly, she couldn’t even hear her footsteps on the polished wooden floor. She paused outside the parlor.
I can submit to this,
she tried to reassure herself, but to no avail. Dread lay heavy in her stomach.
I thought I’d become the mistress of a man I favored, not one who freezes my limbs with just a glance.

Before entering the room, Delia tried to take a deep breath, but her corset squeezed her too tightly.

A man stood at the front window, staring out into the street. He turned as she entered. His cold black gaze raked her body as if she already belonged to him.

A shiver coursed through her.

Spying her fear, his smile widened into a predatory grin. Marcel Dupuy wasn’t a tall man, only a few inches over Delia’s own height. But his wide shoulders and air of authority made him seem like a giant. He took two quick steps and slid his arm around her waist.

She couldn’t help an instinctive backward lean. Panic churned in her stomach.

“Come, my dove. You have nothing to fear from me.”

But his eyes gave her a different message. Despite her training, every instinct urged her to push him away and run.

A spark glinted in his eyes, and he grabbed her breast with a heavy hand.

Delia remained passive, although her knees shook. She even tried to give him the coy smile her mother had instilled in her along with the other graces of how to please a man. But his touch revolted her, and Delia couldn’t stop herself from cringing.

His hand squeezed.

She cried out at the pain,, twisting to break away from his grasp.

He laughed, the sound sinister as he held her tighter.

He wants me to resist
. Delia turned her face away from him. “Stop,” she cried, her words deep-throated with fear.

Marcel slid a hand up her neck and pinched her chin with his fingers, forcing her to face him before pressing a hard kiss to her lips.

His breath smelled of garlic. Wanting to gag, Delia pushed on his chest, managing to put inches between their faces. Nausea swirled in her stomach.

With a swish of skirts, her mother entered the room. “Unhand my daughter, Mr. Dupuy,” Isadora said sharply. “You haven’t paid for her yet.”

Marcel Dupuy waited a moment in an obvious show of power before releasing Delia. “Just sampling the merchandise.”

“My daughter is not a piece of fruit.” Isadora’s voice was cold.

“I disagree. A sweet fruit for my plucking—one I’m paying a good price for.”

“Not until I’m satisfied with the arrangements.” Isadora’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I must watch out for my daughter’s best interests.”

Not my best interests,
Delia thought with resentment,
but her own!
In addition to ensuring Marcel Dupuy would provide a home and an allowance, her mother would dicker until she’d received a settlement for her daughter.
I might as well be a slave.

His eyes narrowed. “Well then, shall we get down to business?”

With a tilt of her head, Isadora dismissed her daughter from the parlor.

Grateful for the release, Delia fled to her bedroom and shut the door behind her. Pressing a shaking hand against her chest, she stumbled to the chair and sank into the seat.

What am I going to do?
Delia couldn’t form enough coherent thoughts to even say a prayer.

I need someone more powerful than Marcel Dupuy to aid me. But how do I find him?

Oh, if only my father were here!
Not for the first time, Delia wished for the man who had sired her and then left for New York before she was born.
Surely, if he’d remained in New Orleans, Andre Bellaire would have taken an interest in my
welfare.

Thinking of her father made Delia remember the last time she’d seen her grandmother. . . . Delia had been shopping, a basket on her arm, when she looked into the street to see Adelaide Bellaire seated in an open carriage watching her. Looking every inch a Creole lady of rank, her grandmother wore a fine green silk gown and held a matching parasol over her head. Only the auburn hair under a frivolous bonnet showed the legacy of Adelaide’s Scottish father—a Northerner who’d lived in New Orleans for a time before returning to New York.

For a moment, Delia saw a flicker of awareness in her grandmother’s hazel eyes, so like the ones Delia saw in her looking glass every day.

The woman gave her the slightest nod.

Delia’s heart lifted, and she’d smiled and nodded in return.

Then Adelaide Bellaire turned her head and stared straight ahead. Her straight back said,
I do not acknowledge you. You are not mine.

The carriage pulled away.

Heart beating hard, Delia had watched until the vehicle was lost from sight in the bustle of other traffic.

The memory of that brief look of recognition made Delia consider reaching out to her grandmother for help. Most Creole women ignored the mistresses of their husbands and sons, as well as any illegitimate offspring they sired. But with Adelaide’s father being a Yankee, maybe her grandmother would be different. After all, she’d paid for Delia’s schooling at the convent. With a surge of hope, Delia decided she would break the rules of polite society, go to Adelaide Bellaire’s home, and beg her for aid.

She waited impatiently until her mother, gloating over Marcel Dupuy’s visit, left the house, then hurried to don her best silk shirtwaist with balloon sleeves and a skirt in an amber color, which made her eyes look gold. She twined a matching tignon around her head.

Checking her reticule, Delia made sure she had the fare for the streetcar and a handkerchief. Then she decided to tuck a second handkerchief inside. Depending on her reception, she might need an extra one.

The Bellaire family resided in the Garden District, a few miles and a world away from Delia’s neighborhood of Faubourg Marigny, with its shotgun houses and gingerbread-laden cottages. She gazed in awe out of the streetcar window at the two- and three-story mansions, elaborate ironwork galleries surrounded by lawns and beautiful gardens.

Nervous but determined, she exited
at the stop nearest her grandmother’s house and began to walk up a street shaded by oak trees. Pink and white azaleas bloomed in the yards. The smells of sweet olive and magnolia drifted her way.

She stopped in front of a white two-story house with a red door and black shutters, and some of Delia’s courage drained from her.
How can I possibly knock on that door?
There was probably a servant’s entrance around the back,
but she was here to speak to her grandmother and wanted to pre
sent herself as a member of the family, even if she was turned away.

As she walked up the brick walkway to the door, Delia’s knees shook.

The butler, a part-caste Negro in a black uniform, opened the door. He glanced at her tignon and looked down his nose at her.

I should have worn a hat, not a headscarf.
Delia lifted her chin. “I’ve come to see Mrs. Bellaire.”

“Go around back.” As the butler started to close the door, he noticed her eyes and hesitated, staring at her face for a few seconds; then, without a word, he opened the door and ushered her inside.

Her stomach tight, Delia stepped into an entryway as big as the living room of her house. From the second floor, a curving stairway swept downward, the mahogany railing ending with a carved statue of a woman in a toga. A huge crystal chandelier dangled from a plaster medallion. A gold, tan, and brown-patterned carpet covered the polished wooden floor. A large mirror in an ornate gold frame hung over a narrow, marble-topped table. A backless settee rested against the wall. White roses in a cut-glass vase on the table perfumed the room. The elegance of her surroundings overwhelmed her. Only the memory of Marcel Dupuy kept Delia rooted in place.

The butler made a stay-here motion with his white-gloved hand. With a stately tread, he moved down the hallway and disappeared into a room on the right. He didn’t appear again.

But a swish of skirts heralded the plump form of her grandmother who walked briskly toward Delia, her lips pinched in a frown.

Adelaide Bellaire was still an attractive woman, with silver streaking her auburn hair and fine lines around her hazel eyes. Looking at her, Delia had a sudden picture of what she’d look like when she grew older.

“What are you doing here, girl?” Adelaide demanded in a sharp tone.

“Mrs. Bellaire, Grandmother,” Delia said in a pleading tone, her fingers tight on her reticule.

Adelaide made a cutting-off gesture with her hand. “Mrs. Bellaire will do.”

“I’ve come to ask for help. My mother is forcing me into a. . .a relationship with Marcel Dupuy.”

Awareness sparked in the older woman’s eyes, and her nostrils flared. “And what do you expect me to do? I certainly will not run afoul of that
cretin
. Best resign yourself, girl.” She made a shooing gesture toward the door. “Now be off with you. And never return here where you don’t belong.”

Shame and hurt mingled in Delia’s heart. Tears blurred her vision. Blindly, she turned. Before she could leave, the door opened.

Two men entered. “Hello,
Maman
,” one said.

Delia blinked back her tears, wondering if she was about to encounter her Uncle Bernard. She’d never seen him and normally would have been curious. Her mother had told her Bernard strongly resembled her father. But now, she braced herself for another snub.

The two men who entered appeared alike: dark hair, hazel eyes, and masculine versions of Adelaide’s delicate features. Both looked at her and halted. They glanced at each other with cocked eyebrows and then back at her. Although their faces were similar, one had deeper lines on his face and more gray in his hair. His gaze on her was kind. “Who are you, child?”

“What are you doing here?” the other man said at the same time in a harsh voice.

Delia straightened her shoulders. “I am Delia Fortier, daughter of Isadora Fortier and Andre Bellaire.”

The kind-eyed man gave a sharp inhale and strode two steps closer. He took her shoulders, turned her toward the light from the windows, and studied her face. “Can it be?” he said in a wondering tone. “Can you be mine? How old are you, child?”

Hope surged through her. “I’m hardly a child.” In spite her defiant words, Delia’s voice wobbled. “I’m twenty. Old enough to be forced into becoming a mistress to a man I fear.”

“What’s this?” he said sharply, looking at his mother in accusation. “Did you know about her?”

Mrs. Bellaire looked away, obviously feeling guilty.

He made a visible effort to control himself.

“Andre, unhand the girl so she can leave,” Mrs. Bellaire said sharply. “She doesn’t belong here.

Andre? He is my father?
Delia’s heart leapt with hope.
He isn’t in New York, after all!

“Goodness, Andre,” the other man drawled. “If you must speak with her, do so elsewhere. Not in Maman’s house. It isn’t seemly.”

Her father shot a sharp look at his brother. “This is my home, too, Bernard.” He took Delia’s hand and towed her down the hall.

“Andre, where are you going?” Mrs. Bellaire called after him.

“To the parlor to visit with my daughter,” Andre said, looking over his shoulder. “Do me the courtesy of granting us privacy.”