Wishing on Buttercups (7 page)

Chapter Seven

Aunt Wilma didn’t say a word, just looked from Mr. Tucker to Beth and back, then beckoned them to follow her upstairs to Beth’s room.

Beth squirmed in Jeffery’s arms, trying to ignore the prickles of awareness being cradled in his strong arms fostered. “Truly, Mr. Tucker, I am sure I can make it to my room with my aunt’s assistance.”

He gently set her on her feet. “I don’t care to take the chance of bumping your knee against the wall. I won’t carry you up, but I insist on helping.” He slipped his arm around her waist again.

Beth resisted the impulse to snuggle against his side as he helped her up the stairs.
Safe
and
protected
—those were the only words that captured what she felt for those brief moments. Something she had never expected to feel in regard to a man again. And she’d certainly never expected Mr. Tucker to be so strong. Aunt Wilma swept ahead and swung open the door to her room.

He stopped at the doorway. “Will you be all right now, Miss Roberts?” Deep concern shone from his eyes as he continued to steady her.

“Yes.” The word came out with a breathy sigh, and Beth felt an almost physical pain as his arm slipped from her waist … a pain that had nothing to do with her wrenched knee.

He waited until she entered the room, then headed toward the stairs.

Beth limped to her bed and stretched out. She darted a glance at her aunt and waited for the eruption.

Aunt Wilma settled onto the mattress beside her, and Beth hitched over, grimacing at the pain.

“Tell me what happened. Why was Mr. Tucker carrying you?” Aunt Wilma’s firm tone softened. “Mrs. Cooper seemed to believe you were badly hurt.”

Beth relaxed into the pillows. She didn’t know why she’d feared her aunt would be upset—possibly a result of her own shame at being held in a man’s arms for so long. She probed a little deeper, not sure that the word
shame
conveyed her feelings.
Chagrin
or
embarrassment
might come closer, although the warmth stealing over her disparaged that conclusion.

“I spent longer on the hill than I’d planned and decided to hurry home. I guess I wasn’t watching my footing. I tripped over a root and went flying. I wrenched my knee and struck a rock.”

“But what of Mr. Tucker?” Aunt Wilma’s brows beetled together. “How did he happen to come upon you? What in heaven’s name were you doing up on a hillside alone?” She drew back. “And how badly are you hurt?”

Beth held up her hand and chuckled. “One question at a time, Auntie. I’m fine. Or at least, nothing’s broken, although my knee is quite tender and sore. As for Mr. Tucker, apparently he was taking a stroll and came across me.” She bit her lip. It wasn’t a lie, as he
had
been taking a walk, but she couldn’t face all the forthcoming questions if she explained. “I’m quite grateful he did, although I could have made it home well enough by leaning on his arm.”

A curious sparkle lit her aunt’s eyes. “I see. It seems he didn’t agree?”

Beth ducked her head. “Well …”

“’Fess up and tell your aunt all about it. What exactly happened out there?”

“When I fell, I lost my sketch pad, and Mr. Tucker misinterpreted my response as pain. He scooped me into his arms, even though I assured him I could walk. No protest convinced him, and he insisted on carrying me to the house.” There. She’d told Aunt Wilma everything. Well, almost. Beth saw no reason to share her reactions to Jeffery’s arms cradling her against his chest or the loss she’d felt when he released her. No. Aunt Wilma had no need for those details at all.

Her aunt stroked a curl off Beth’s forehead. “And why, pray tell, didn’t you simply inform him you’d lost your tablet? I assume you didn’t mention it. Is it still out there in the brush?”

Beth nodded, misery knotting her stomach. “You’re the only one who knows I’m an illustrator. Except for my publisher, of course. But even they don’t know the real Beth Roberts. I guess I didn’t want Mr. Tucker asking questions or insisting on seeing my work.”

Aunt Wilma sighed. “I still don’t understand that decision. It’s not like your drawings are more than an enjoyable hobby. I realize you make some money from them, but one of these days you’ll marry and want to raise a family. You won’t have time for sketching. Why do you insist on keeping it a secret? Mr. Tucker would probably appreciate what you’ve done.”

“No, Aunt Wilma. I will never marry or have a family. No man would want me if he knew everything. It’s no one’s business, least of all Mr. Tucker’s. And it is
not
just a hobby. It’s part of who I am. It fulfills me, and that will never end. Nothing else makes me feel the same way—at peace … worthwhile.” Her chin firmed with determination. “I know you don’t understand, but it’s true. Besides, Mr. Tucker is too nosy. He’ll want to know why I have a tablet full of drawings and what I’m doing with them. He’s always asking questions, and I’m convinced he’s attempting to find more material for his book. I, for one, don’t care to be included in his story, and I wish he’d go away and leave us alone.” She averted her eyes, unwilling to reveal the conflicted emotions swirling inside.

Her aunt patted her shoulder. “But dear heart, your peace can’t come solely from your drawings, nor can you find your entire worth there. That must come from God.”

“I’m afraid not, Auntie. It’s not that I don’t care about God, but there is so much I don’t understand, like why God allowed the things in my life, and why I’m so alone now.” She met her aunt’s gaze. “Other than you, of course. I’m sure I have Him to thank for you taking me in, but there are so many other unanswered questions. My peace doesn’t come from God, at least not at this point in my life. It comes from my work.”

Wilma smoothed another of Beth’s curls. “Now, there. I don’t agree, but I hate to see you upset. I won’t speak to Mr. Tucker about your drawings, if you insist.”

Beth plucked at the brightly colored quilt she lay on. “Thank you. But I
am
worried someone will find my tablet. Or that it will rain, and the pictures will be ruined before I can retrieve it.” Sudden determination pushed her up onto her elbow. “I’ll go get it right now. I can’t take any chances.”

Aunt Wilma gently pressed Beth back against her pillow. “You’ll do no such thing. If it’s going to worry you that much, I’ll find it when we’re finished talking. Tell me where you lost it. I can’t imagine it will be too hard to locate.”

The tension seeped out of Beth’s muscles. “Are you sure? It’s not terribly far from the house, but I hate to ask you to traipse down a dirt path.”

Aunt Wilma fluttered her hand in the air. “Nonsense. I am not a child, nor am I in my dotage.” She leaned over and kissed Beth’s cheek.

Beth nodded but continued to fiddle with the tufts of yarn decorating the squares on the quilt. “But first I have something to discuss.”

Isabelle Mason stared at the journal. It felt like such a waste. All these years, pouring out her heart in the hopes that someone would read them before it was too late. Remorse plagued her, tugging her deeper into the darkness than even the sickness that constantly beset her. Her shoulders slumped, and she laid the pen aside, suddenly too tired to continue.

What had she thought this would accomplish? Her time would be better spent in the garden, when she could muster the energy to pull the ever-encroaching weeds and pour water on the struggling plants. Steven always toted the buckets from the well when he was home, but the barrel standing beside the modest garden plot was nearly empty. She hated asking Ina or her friend Karen to fill it, even though both women were stronger than she.

Why must she always fight against this reoccurring sadness that drained the joy and strength from her body? The constant ravages of the disease that had struck so many years ago had done its share to draw her closer to her eternal reward in heaven.

More and more she longed to leave this life and travel to the next. Only two things pressed her forward and convinced her to fight: Steven and—

Pain knifed through Isabelle’s heart. She couldn’t go there, even in her thoughts. Plucking the pen from its stand and moving the journal into the lantern’s light, she squinted at the next clean page. Time to stop all the foolish pity and do what needed to be done. A record must be kept, and she was the only one who could do it.

Chapter Eight

Wilma’s heart pounded as she looked into her niece’s agitated face. What had stirred her up? Surely the loss of her sketch pad wasn’t enough to carve creases between her brows. “What’s worrying you, Beth? Is it the illustrations you’re supposed to do for the magazine?”

“No. I’ve finished one and sent it in to the magazine, and already have a rough idea for another. I’m still working out the details, but it’ll come.” Her fingers, stained with lead, continued to pluck at the quilt.

“You spend too much time in your room hunched over your desk; it’s going to ruin your lovely posture. You need to be out in society, doing things other young women enjoy. Drawing is pleasant enough, but it’s consuming far too much of your time, child. Finish your obligation for these illustrations and don’t take any more. You need to make a life for yourself and stop wasting your time with foolishness.”

Beth jerked as though slapped. “You think my work is foolish? All this time I assumed you believed in me. That you wanted me to succeed.”

Wilma’s stomach clenched. It had been years since she’d seen such a bereft expression on her dear girl’s face. What had she done? The child shrank as though Wilma had taken something precious away and was refusing to give it back. Could her drawings mean so much?

Wilma scrambled for the right words. “Of course I want you to succeed, but there are other kinds of success. I simply believe you’d be happier as a wife and mother. You can still enjoy your work after you marry. In fact, I’d like to have a picture with some trees or mountains in it, if you’d care to draw one for me someday.” She peered at her niece.

Beth dropped her gaze to her fingers. “I’d be happy to, Auntie.” No joy tinged the soft answer. “But I’m not giving up my work. It’s important to me. People have never filled that hole. You were happily married to Uncle George, so I’m certain you can’t understand. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

“What then?” Wilma was unexpectedly nervous.

Stark pain blazed from Beth’s eyes. “Memories.” The single word came out in a whisper. “Or maybe they’ve been dreams. I’m not sure. Mostly at night, but they carry into the day … sometimes, anyway. And into my sketches. Like today.” She shifted on the bed again. “I want to sit up. I can’t lie here while I talk about this.”

Alarm bells rang in Wilma’s head. “All right, but you mustn’t get up on that knee yet.” She scooted off the bed and plucked a pillow from the chair in the corner of the room. “Lean forward, and I’ll tuck this behind you.”

Beth situated herself against the pillow. “That’s better. Thank you.”

Wilma pulled the chair close to the bed and sank into it. “Now, what’s all this about? Dreams, memories, and such … and you’ve put some of it into your sketches?” Dread filled her. She’d worried this day might come. She’d only told Beth what she felt the girl needed to know. There was no sense in making her feel worse than she already did, believing her parents hadn’t wanted her. All she could do was pray memories hadn’t surfaced that would plunge her sweet darling into the past. Not that her niece wasn’t a strong young woman. Sometimes Wilma wondered if she really knew how deep the girl’s resolve extended. But this was not the way she cared to have it tested.

“I drew something today that I don’t completely understand, but it left me shaken and feeling sick.”

Wilma straightened in her chair. “Can you share it with me?”

“I think so. I wish I had my tablet so I could show you instead.” She rubbed her temples. “It was something I saw in my mind. My fingers seemed to fly across the paper of their own volition. Dust, disappearing into the distance. In the foreground a little girl sitting by a bed of coals, her skin swollen and covered with red blisters, and her clothing burned.”

Wilma winced, hating the picture forming. “Was that all?” As though it weren’t enough, but she had to know. Too much had been left unsaid for too long. “So you believe what you drew was a memory of something that happened to you?” As soon as the words left her lips, she knew how foolish they sounded. What else would the images be?

“Yes. At least, I think so. You’ve never told me much about my past, and I guess I never wanted to know. I always thought my parents hated me because of my scars.”

Wilma gripped the armrests so tightly her fingers hurt. “You are not ugly and never have been. Those scars barely show. And I don’t believe for a moment your parents gave you away due to you being burned.”

“What if I was careless and fell in the fire, and they didn’t care to be bothered? They may have already decided they didn’t want me, and my injuries settled it. Besides, I
am
ugly and the scars
do
show.” Tears welled. Beth blinked rapidly, then swiped at an errant droplet. “A couple of years after I came to live with you, I was playing a game with the neighborhood children. We were rolling around on the ground, and my stockings fell down. The children screamed and said my legs were scary, and they didn’t want to play with me anymore. I was so hurt and confused that I shrieked an Indian word. Not long after that, most of them quit coming to play.” Her lips trembled. “Even the girl who’d promised to be my friend abandoned me.…”