Love takes wing (Love Comes Softly #7) (28 page)

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the fresh sting of the salty air and walking the well-scrubbed planks to get her strength back.

A small town on the coast of Spain was their first stop. Belinda was so anxious to see this new country that she had to consciously slow her step to accommodate Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. The sights, sounds, and smells of the small Spanish port were every bit as exciting as she had imagined. They settled into a small villa with whitewashed walls and a red-tile roof. Greenery crowded in close about it, giving it a protected air. Belinda loved it. The best part of all was that they were still within walking distance of the sea, and Belinda took long strolls daily, breathing deeply of the tangy air and watching the roll of the waves.

They managed frequent shopping trips through the quaint streets. Belinda loved to walk slowly through the aisles or stalls, fingering soft fabrics or admiring fine metal work. She made few purchases, but she thought many times,
Wouldn't Ma like that?
or
That color would suit Abbie,
and on and on with each family member.

And then the two moved on by train to Barcelona, Madrid, Rome, Venice--from city to ancient city--where new sights, new people, and new experiences awaited them. Belinda could not immediately recall whether it was Friday or Saturday. There was so much to do and see that she rushed about from morning to evening trying to crowd it all in. Often Mrs. Stafford-Smyth stayed at the hotel, but she usually knew someone in the city who was willing to show Belinda the tourist sights. And Belinda was quite willing to let her traveling companion rest.

"I think I would like to be in France by mid-May," announced Mrs. Stafford-Smyth one evening, and Belinda nodded, knowing that the woman's heart was already in that country with her two grandsons. France in May would be fine. She intended to thoroughly enjoy each stop along the way, though.

But as the days added up to weeks, Belinda began to feel a

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different kind of restlessness. Each new city was no longer as captivating. There came days when she didn't bother going out for long strolls to study architecture or visit museums. She sat quietly and listened to the distant church bells, or lay on her bed staring silently at the plastered ceiling.

She tried to sort through her thoughts to understand what was happening to her, but she could find no reason for her lethargy.

Mrs. Stafford-Smyth must have noticed it, too. "Are you feeling ill, deah?" she asked anxiously one day at luncheon.

"No. No, I'm fine," answered Belinda, pushing aside the food still remaining on her plate.

But Mrs. Stafford-Smyth did not seem convinced.

"Maybe we've taken things too fast," she offered. "Tried to see too many cities in too short a time."

Belinda thought about that. Certainly they had covered a lot of ground. But she wasn't sure there were any cities she would have left out.

"I . . . I don't think so," she responded. "I liked each one . . . really I did."

"A little lonesome maybe?" prompted Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. Belinda thought about it. Certainly she missed her family. Over and over she thought of them--wishing she could share her experiences with them. In fact, her journal entries were to help her to do that very thing the moment she got home. She wrote them lengthy letters, as well, posting them from various countries. But as much as she missed them all, Belinda didn't feel that was the reason for her low spirits.

"I'm fine, really" she protested, then added with a forced little laugh, "Maybe I'm like you. Just anxious to see France."

"Well, let's be on with it, then," said Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. "There's no reason we have to wait until May. Let's go directly"

And so they did, arriving in Paris the last day of April. Belinda

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felt her excitement mount again. Maybe this was just what she needed.

Settled in the hotel room, Mrs. Stafford-Smyth stood at the window, holding back the drapery with one hand and looking out over the city that stretched before her.

"It seems so strange," she murmured. "It is the same . . . and yet so different. It's like having someone you deeply love return after being gone for years and years. You know them . . . and yet you don't."

Belinda stirred uncomfortably. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth's words had a strange effect on her.
That's the way I feel about myself;
she thought restlessly.
Like I don't know myself anymore. Have I lost myself somewhere along this journey?
Then Belinda pushed the thought aside and went to join her employer at the window with the twinkling lights of Paris stretching to the horizon.

From somewhere below them, music floated out on the evening air. Belinda could hear laughter and chattering voices in a language she could not understand. Then a dog barked, and angry shouts answered, and the dog yipped in pain or anger and faded away into the distance.

From somewhere far away bells began to toll.
A church,
thought Belinda.
A church somewhere nearby. Can we go to church come Sunday morning?
And Belinda found herself wondering how many Sundays it had been since she had been in church.

They often traveled on Sunday--or were tired, just having arrived from somewhere, or didn't know where the nearest church was. There was also the language problem. "Why go just to sit?" asked Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. "We can't understand one word of what they are saying," and though Belinda knew it was true, she still missed church. Perhaps now that they were here in Paris, Pierre would take them to a church. Belinda smiled in anticipation.

"I wonder if Frank is married." Mrs. Stafford-Smyth

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interrupted her thoughts. Then she went on as though to herself rather than to Belinda. "He was always the ladies' man. He had a new friend every time I heard from him. But Petah said that this time it seemed to be different. Well, perhaps my boy is growing up aftah all. Maybe by now he is settled down to married life."

But a surprise awaited them. When they, as arranged, met the two grandsons the next afternoon, it was Pierre who introduced his new wife.

"I sent word to you in Boston," he explained to his grandmother. "Windsor informed me that you had left to travel abroad, but I had no idea where to find you."

Belinda extended her sincere congratulations. Quickly putting their previous friendship in proper perspective, she could be happy for Pierre. The young woman was pretty, quiet, and very devoted to her new husband. Belinda did not proceed with her plan to ask Pierre for an escort to church in case Anne-Marie could misunderstand the request.

Franz, not at all like his brother, was dashing, bold, reckless in his behavior and dress, and dreamy in his approach to life. He was not married, but he was planning soon to be, he said, and his eyes seemed to see only his young Yvette.

Belinda felt that Mrs. Stafford-Smyth expressed the thoughts of both of them when she said, "Well, it seems that if we are to enjoy the sights of Paris, we must do so on our own. I believe that my two grandsons are living in their own private worlds."

Belinda made every effort to enjoy Paris. It was nice to visit museums and historical sites and shops with Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, who knew the city well, but soon Paris, too, was just another city. The streets were filled with people, not friends, and the noise was simply chatter, not words, and the bells that rang in the distance belonged only to stone buildings, not houses of God.

"Back home, spring will have come," Belinda said listlessly, as they sat in an open-air cafe one day.

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"Ah yes," said Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, lifting her head from her delicate French pastry.

Belinda couldn't stop the sigh that escaped her.

Mrs. Stafford-Smyth went on. "I do hope that Thomas continues to work the gardens. I don't know what I shall evah do when he leaves me."

"It was so beautiful last year," Belinda thought out loud.

Mrs. Stafford-Smyth sat in silence fidgeting with her lorgnette.

"Should we return, Belinda?" she asked suddenly. "Perhaps we have 'gadded about'--as Windsah puts it--for quite long enough."

"I'd like that," said Belinda softly.

And so they made the arrangements, packed their trunks and boxes, and were delivered to a departing ship.

All the days at sea Belinda paced restlessly. Now she did not find even the other passengers of particular interest and barely noticed them. But someone noticed her, an older man in clergy attire who pulled up a deck chair and seated himself after asking her leave.

"Ah," he said softly when she had nodded for him to join her, "do ye kin the sound of the waves like the soft flutter of angel wings?"

Belinda's head turned toward him and she smiled at his poetic musing. He took her acknowledgment as permission to continue. "Are ye goin' home or away?" he asked her.

Belinda sat up a bit straighter in her chair. "Home," she said simply and wondered why the words didn't stir her more.

"It's away 'tis for me," the man continued with a heavy Irish brogue. "Me friends 'ave been sayin' for years, 'Come to America,

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Mattie: an' I've been stallin' an' stallin', but then I said, 'Marie, ye'll niver know lest ye go."

Belinda smiled.

"But first I went on to see me sister in Paris," he continued as though Belinda would be interested in all the details of his story "Ye niver know if ye might niver be back,' I told myself"

Belinda nodded and tried to smile.

"'Tis scary, goin' to a new country," the man continued soberly. "An' at me age, too. I worried some, ye can be sure. But then I said, 'Marie, why all the fussin'? Ye needn't leave God on here behind ye now. Ye ken take 'im with ye."

Something in what the kindly man said stirred a response within Belinda. Was that what she had done? Left God back in her homeland? Was that why her trip abroad had become so dismal, so unsatisfying? She knew she had missed attending church, but had she misplaced God, too? After all, God was not limited to buildings. His true dwelling was in hearts. Had Belinda shut the door of her heart when she stepped on the deck of the sailing vessel? If God had no place in her thoughts or plans from that time on, no wonder she had been miserable.

No! No, that wasn't when it happened,
Belinda realized as she thought further. She had left God out of her life even before leaving Boston. Perhaps the downward slide had begun before she left her own small town, maybe starting with her restlessness. Had the restlessness been a result of her constant care of Mrs. StaffordSmyth? She had allowed her nursing duties to keep her from daily quiet times of prayer and Bible reading.
And I was getting all nervous and upset about Rand and Jackson,
she remembered.

Things had only worsened in the flurry of activity in Boston with Pierre. They had been so busy running here and there that Belinda had put aside her Sunday church attendance, as well. Gradually, thoughtlessly, she had drifted into a life that didn't include God.

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Belinda looked across at the gentleman beside her. She did not wish to be rude, but she needed some time alone. No. . . no, she needed time with her God. She had been floundering--starving--and not even realizing why.

"Excuse me, please," she said to the man. "I've enjoyed meeting you, but I . . . I . . . need to return to my stateroom."

Belinda was thankful that Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was not there. She needed privacy. With almost frantic gestures she began to rummage through the baggage stored beneath her bunk. Where was her Bible? She who had read her Bible
daily
had not held it in her hands for weeks.

At last she drew it forth from the bottom of a suitcase. With tears streaming down her face, she clasped the book to her bosom.

"Oh, God," she prayed, "God, I'm so sorry. Forgive me. Forgive me for forsaking you. I . . . I've been so lonely, and in my foolishness I did not even know why." Belinda fell on her knees and cried out to a forgiving Father.

It was a while before the inner storm was spent and peace again entered Belinda's heart. She rose to sit on her berth and opened her Bible. She sat reading favorite portions from her precious book, thankfully noticing how each passage met her need, and wondering how she could have ever become so careless as to neglect it.

She had been raised with Bible reading. Her earliest memories were of sitting on her father's lap as he read to the family from the Bible each morning. She had always been impressed with the importance of Bible reading and time spent in prayer. She knew! She knew! She had learned it well. She had become a believer herself when she was but a girl and had allowed God to lead and direct her life throughout her growing years. How was it possible for her to let the pleasures of the world and the deceitfulness of living a life of leisure and wealth lead her so far off course? How

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could Satan so subtly and slowly have drawn her away from her source of spiritual life? It had developed so gradually that Belinda had been unaware of its happening.