What Once Was Lost (9 page)

“A mouse chewed the cane on this chair.” There was a long pause, almost as if the man was trying to decide whether to say anything more. Then his words rushed out. “Do you want to fix it?”

Tommy ran his hand over the seat, feeling the edges of chewed cane. Prickly. Tattered. So different from the completed seat on the first chair, which had felt smooth and orderly. He wanted to fix it, but apprehension coiled his insides into knots. Sliding a few discarded curls together didn’t mean he could cane a chair. A lump of longing filled Tommy’s throat—a longing to be useful. The desire nearly choked him.

“I’d like you to try.”

He wanted to try, too. He swallowed and dared to share his worry. “I might mess it up.”

That chuckle came again. Soft. Gentle. Soothing. “You can’t make it any worse than it is right now.”

Tommy’s finger scraped the chewed-away edges of cane. He snickered.

“So you gonna try?”

Tommy drew in a breath and released it slowly, gathering courage. “Yes, sir. I’ll try.”

Chapter 9

Brisk wind raced across the smoke-smudged limestone wall of the beautiful Victorian and sent a chill straight through Christina’s wool coat. She’d waited more than a week for the mission board to send representatives to examine the fire-damaged house, and during that time she’d anticipated their commitment to rebuild. How could they allow such a lovely place—a house with leaded-glass windows, a spindled and gingerbread-bedecked wraparound porch, and fish-scaled turrets—to languish? Even more significant than its proud appearance, the Brambleville Asylum for the Poor provided a needed ministry, one she and her father had committed themselves to filling. The men’s somber, negative reaction to her desire to reopen the house chilled her even more deeply than the relentless Kansas wind.

“But I can’t just walk away. This is my home.” Christina hugged herself, battling tears.

Wes, standing behind Christina’s shoulder, leaned in. “House itself ain’t ruined. Place just needs new walls an’ a new roof on the back where the kitchen used to be.”

The older of the two men who’d been sent to examine the property cleared his throat and pushed his round-lensed spectacles higher on his bulbous nose. “Do you have experience in construction, young man?”

Wes crunched his lips to the side. “You mean, have I done any buildin’?”

“That’s precisely what I mean.”

Wes’s broad shoulders hunched into a sheepish shrug. “Chicken coops an’ fences.”

The two mission board men exchanged a look. The older one spoke again. “Although I’m certainly no expert in carpentry, I admit it appears the main body
of the house is unscathed. Smoke damage, of course, but nothing structural. Even the roof—with the exception of the area above the kitchen add-on, obviously the place where the fire originated—seems to have been spared damage.”

Christina’s hopes rose.

“But I still can’t recommend approving the necessary funds for the project.”

Her toes were starting to feel numb. Christina shifted from foot to foot on the brittle grass to keep the blood flowing. “Mr. Regehr, please help me understand. If the house is salvageable, why not approve rebuilding the kitchen?”

Mr. Regehr clamped his lips together, and his thick gray eyebrows descended into a scowl. For several seconds he glared at her, the way a schoolmaster might try to intimidate a misbehaving student. Christina fidgeted beneath his stern look, but she wouldn’t be cowed. Bringing the poor farm residents back together was too important to allow one man’s negativity to deter her. Finally he harrumphed and flung a disgruntled look at the other man.

The second man, tall and thin with gray-blue eyes so pale they almost seemed colorless, aimed his gaze somewhere beyond Christina’s shoulder. “If I might be frank, Miss Willems, the board isn’t certain the asylum should continue … at this location.”

A strand of hair, pulled free from the figure-eight twist on her head by a gust of wind, tickled her cheek as trepidation teased her soul. When Father had taken the position as the poor farm’s manager, he’d been instructed to prepare for full occupancy since the county had no other suitable place for the area’s destitute. “Does the board intend to open a poor farm elsewhere in Shawnee County?”

“No, but—”

“Miss Willems?” Wes danced in place, his long arms wrapped across his middle. “Can we finish our talkin’ in the barn? The wind’s fixin’ to freeze my nose off.”

Apparently the two visitors agreed, because without a word they turned
and strode toward the solid rock barn. Wes bounded ahead, and Christina scurried alongside the black-suited men. Wes held the door open while everyone stepped inside. Then he closed the double doors and dropped the crossbar into place. He released a shuddering breath, a relieved smile creasing his square face. Gesturing to a low bench along one stall, he said, “Miss Willems, set yourself down. I’ll fetch some barrels an’ such for the fellas.”

“No need.” The older man’s gruff voice stopped Wes in his trek across the barn. With a resigned lift of his shoulders, Wes leaned against the closest support beam and traced designs in the dirt with the toe of his boot. Mr. Regehr planted his feet wide and folded his arms across his chest. “We won’t be here long enough to warrant sitting.”

Christina had started to lower herself onto the bench, but Mr. Regehr’s blunt statement brought her upright again.

“Breneman, finish your explanation, and then we must return to town.”

Mr. Breneman gave a solemn nod. “Miss Willems, when the Brambleville Asylum for the Poor opened, it was under your father’s direction. While it’s no fault of yours that he’s no longer overseeing the operation, the board has some concerns about leaving it in your hands.”

Christina’s jaw dropped. Shortly after her father’s death, she’d received a visit from the head of the mission board, and she assumed the board was confident in her ability to serve as manager. After all, her parents had been involved in mission work from the time she was born. She’d grown up learning to serve. She knew no other means of living.

Her entire frame began to tremble. She eased onto the bench lest her quivering legs chose to collapse. “Not once in the past year when I’ve communicated with the board via letters and monthly reports has anyone expressed concern.”

Mr. Breneman grimaced. “We aren’t making accusations, Miss Willems. But you certainly understand it is … er …”

“Unseemly,” Mr. Regehr mumbled.

“Unconventional,” Mr. Breneman said loudly, “to place a single lady, such as yourself, in a position of leadership.”

Christina held her hands outward, confusion creating an ache in her stomach. “Then why didn’t the board replace me when Father passed away? Why wait until now?”

“The board agreed it would be less than Christian to remove you from your home when you were in the midst of mourning your father’s death.” Mr. Breneman’s tone, although businesslike, held a note of apology. “We voted to wait a year before approaching you about assigning a new director. It’s only coincidence that the fire occurred when the year of mourning had reached its end.”

Across the barn Wes pushed off from the upright beam and stomped toward the men, his hands balled into fists. Christina jumped up and tried to waylay him, but he charged past her. “You ain’t sendin’ Miss Willems away!”

“Now see here.” Mr. Regehr held up both palms, his eyes narrowing into slits. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Wes raised his chin, defiance glittering in his eyes. “Does too. Miss Willems, she’s like … like a ma to me. Her an’ her pa took me in. She taught me to read an’ write when teachers said I was too dumb to learn. Her pa showed me how to care for critters—cows an’ chickens an’ pigs—and to put seeds in the ground an’ make ’em grow. Don’t know where I’d be or what I’d be doin’ if Miss Willems an’ her pa hadn’t said, ‘Yes, sir, Wes, you’re welcome here.’ I … 
we
—me an’ all the others—need her. An’ you can’t send her away!”

“Wes, hush now.” Christina put her hand on his arm, touched beyond words by his fervent pleas on her behalf. But the expressions on the board members’ faces communicated defensiveness. She couldn’t alienate them now—she needed them to be willing to listen. Her fingers applying gentle pressure to Wes’s forearm, she faced the men. “I suppose having a woman in charge of the poor farm is a bit unconventional. To some people’s minds, even unseemly.”

She wasn’t sure, but she thought Mr. Regehr humphed. She resisted flicking a glance at the man. “But I assure you, nothing of an unseemly nature has
occurred beneath the poor farm roof either before or after my father’s death.”

Mr. Regehr arched one brow. “That’s not what Mr. Hamilton Dresden indicated.”

Wes jerked, and Christina’s hand fell away from his arm. Her heart skipped into double beats of anxiety. Unpleasant memories flooded her mind. “When have you spoken to Ham Dresden?”

Mr. Breneman dropped his gaze to the barn floor. A red flush rose from beneath the badger fur collar of his coat and crept toward his ears. “Two months ago.”

Heat seared Christina’s face. She could well imagine what the man had told them. The evening she’d cast him out of the farm, he’d spouted every kind of vile threat imaginable. “I see.” She tipped her chin. “I assume the board believes his account over the report I sent to explain why I’d asked him to find another place to live?”

“Now, Miss Willems, of course we don’t question your honesty.” Mr. Breneman’s gaze landed briefly on Christina, then flittered downward again. His smooth-shaven cheeks glowed red. “But we can’t simply discount the man’s complaint. After all—”

Wes growled, “That man’s a lazy, no-good scoundrel. A liar, too.”

Mr. Regehr stepped forward. “He might be. But the fact remains that if he came to us with his accusations, he’s shared them in other places as well. Even if they aren’t true, it casts aspersions on the mission as a whole.”

Mr. Breneman added, his tone pleading, “Don’t you see, Miss Willems? If we’d had a man in charge of the poor farm, Mr. Dresden wouldn’t have been able to make accusations of impropriety.”

Indignation tightened Christina’s chest. “The only person behaving with impropriety was Hamilton Dresden himself.”

“And, presuming Dresden did behave inappropriately, would he have had the courage to do so if a
man
had been leading the asylum?”

Mr. Regehr’s question stabbed Christina’s soul. She feared he was right.
Defenseless against the accusation, she fixed the men with a worried frown. “So you’re willing to permanently displace thirteen innocent souls”—she deliberately counted herself in the number—“because of one man’s deplorable choice.”

“Of course not.” Mr. Regehr employed his impatient schoolteacher tone again. “The mission board is currently seeking placements for each needy person who’s been calling the Brambleville Asylum home. As a matter of fact, we’re prepared to take the Schwartzes with us today and settle them in an asylum near Hillsboro, where a ground-floor room is available.”

Wes clawed at her arm, his eyes wide with alarm. Christina took his hand and started to protest the decision to take Herman and Harriet away, but Mr. Regehr went on.

“We’ve long held apprehensions about the asylum’s location so far from town or helpful neighbors. Had your father not been such a capable leader, we probably wouldn’t have purchased the property in the first place. A larger city—Lawrence, for example—might be a more appropriate location.”

Arguments formed in Christina’s head, but she bit her tongue and remained silent. She sensed Mr. Breneman might be willing to listen to reason if Mr. Regehr weren’t standing guard like a snarling dog chained to a mansion’s porch column. She’d address the situation again—soon—but in a letter to the entire mission board. She’d already spent more than an hour at the poor farm property, and she still needed to drive to the Jonnson mill and retrieve Tommy before starting supper at the boardinghouse.

She forced a congenial tone. “Very well, gentlemen.”

Wes gawked at her. “Miss Willems, you ain’t gonna let ’em—”

Patting Wes on the arm, she aimed a steady, unblinking look at the pair of board representatives. “Shall we return to town now?”

Wes sniffled as he followed Christina to the four-seat buggy they’d borrowed from the liveryman. Although Wes gave her a look of betrayal, he helped her onto the front seat while the visiting men climbed into the back. Her heart ached at the firm set of Wes’s jaw and the tears welling in his eyes, but she couldn’t
offer assurances. Not with Mr. Regehr and Mr. Breneman so close they’d hear every word. And not until she’d had a chance to petition the entire board about reopening the poor farm under her direction. She wouldn’t offer Wes false hope.

In town the mission representatives shook Christina’s hand in farewell. Mr. Breneman offered a meek apology for being the bearer of bad news, but Mr. Regehr marched off toward the hotel without a backward glance. Mr. Breneman trotted after him, his smooth cheeks bearing bright banners of embarrassment.

As soon as the two men were gone, Christina slipped Papa’s watch from beneath her coat and peeked at its round face. She had an hour before she’d need to help prepare supper at the boardinghouse, which offered sufficient time for another errand. She turned to Wes. “Would you please hitch the poor farm horse to our wagon?”

Wes folded his arms tightly across his chest and presented his back to her. “Why?”

In spite of his belligerence, Christina answered kindly. “Because I need to drive to the Jonnson mill.”

Wes spun around so fast he nearly lost his balance. “The sawmill? You gonna ask Mr. Jonnson about rebuildin’ the house?”

His hopeful expression tore at Christina. “I need to retrieve Tommy. The banker and his wife said they’d take him in.”

His mouth formed a grim line, and he drew back. “So you’re gonna dump Tommy on somebody else? Not even gonna try to take care of him your own self? Not gonna try to keep Herman an’ Harriet here or take care o’ any of us anymore?” Although he sounded more befuddled than angry, his questions flayed her.

Christina held a hand toward him in supplication. “Wes, please listen to me. I—”