Traces of Mercy (10 page)

C
HAPTER
T
EN

I believe Rand Prescott is a man who generally gets his way. I wasn’t sure if I liked him or not—until I saw how much he cares for his horse. That settled it for me.

I have never seen Deirdre smile as big as she did when she said hello to Rand. I wonder if he reminds her of the potato farmer she left behind in Ireland.

Oona told me sometimes she misses wearing pretty dresses that are other colors besides black and white. She and Deirdre told me to wear my blue dress to the theater tomorrow night. They said it brings out my eyes. I’m hoping that’s a good thing, because the blue dress is the only clean thing I have right now.

After a very earnest prayer from Sister Ruth about the safety of their trip to town the next evening, the sisters climbed into the back of the wagon as if they were about to go apple picking.

St. Louis was bustling with activity—something Mercy still found disconcerting—especially after her quiet time at the convent. Reins held loosely in her hand, Mercy sat between Oona and Mother Helena on the buckboard.

“Mother Helena?” Mercy asked.

“Yes?”

“Do you think that Mr. Prescott knows you tricked him into giving the convent the proceeds from this evening’s performance?”

“Mercy!” Oona protested. “That’s a terrible thing to say. Mother doesn’t trick people into anything!”

“I think he’s a smart young man,” Mother Helena said, “who didn’t know he’d been tricked until he’d already issued the invitation.”

“Mother!” Oona gasped. “You
did
trick him?”

“I prefer to think of it as taking advantage of a God-given opportunity.” Mother Helena sniffed. “I knew about charity nights at the theater,” she continued. “And I also knew Rand’s family was on the board of trustees. We have a need. They have the money. And soon—we’ll have new beds.”

“A few blocks now,” Oona assured Mercy. “Turn left there on Eighth.”

“You’re awfully familiar with the city,” Mercy said. “I didn’t realize you made so many trips here.”

“Not so much now, but we did during the war,” Oona said. She pointed out a huge building on the right—an octagonal tower that rose up three stories high between two wings of red brick. “We spent quite a bit of time in that building right there.”

“What is it?”

“Gratiot Street Prison,” Oona answered. “It was operated by the Union army during the war.”

“They put captured Confederate soldiers in there,” Mother Helena said. “Horrible conditions. Men dying daily from diseases. Hopeless souls who needed prayer.”

“I think I was close to experiencing a wee bit of hell on earth inside the brick walls of Gratiot,” Oona said.

Despite the warmth of the early evening, Mercy shivered. The building didn’t look nearly as ominous as they made it sound, but just hearing the name of the place made her feel like running away. She glanced around at the neighborhood, which was filled with fine homes. Oona pointed at a two-story colonial house they were passing.

“That was General Frémont’s headquarters at one time. President Lincoln himself appointed him to help lead the Union army,” she said. Then she pointed at another house at the end of the block. “And that house belongs to Judge Harrison. People say Frémont and Harrison were good friends all through the war, which is a miracle if you’d be askin’ me, because Judge Harrison has always been known as a Southern sympathizer—like many families in this area. Everyone knew if a prisoner managed to escape from Gratiot, he could vanish in a flash into any one of these dandy homes.”

Mercy glanced over her shoulder at the building as they continued along the street. “I think I’d rather be dead than be held a prisoner in a place like that.”

“I spoke to many a man inside who felt just that way, lass,” Mother Helena said. “Some of the saddest conversations of my lifetime.”

“There’s the theater!” Deirdre called out from behind them. “I heard it was built to resemble the Barthelems Theatre in Paris, France! Isn’t it a beautiful building?”

The DeBar’s Opera House had a unique oval shape. Two stories of vaulted arches spanned the building, with a third story adorned by scores of arched windows. It looked opulent, almost decadent, and was teeming with people moving through the front doors.

Rand, dressed in a tailored black suit with a snow-white handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket, was waiting for them on the steps of the building. Even in her thin cotton dress, Mercy felt wilted from the heat. She marveled at how cool he appeared as he came toward them with a smile.

“If it isn’t my favorite sisters!” He directed a quick look at Mercy. “And Miss Mercy, of course.” He offered Mother Helena his arm. “Let me show you to your seats,” he said as he led the flock of nuns through the theater doors.

The opulent lobby was filled with people who parted as the sea of black habits moved toward the double doors of the auditorium. But as a single woman in a simple, inappropriate day dress, Mercy found she was not afforded the same deferential treatment. She tried to ignore the scornful looks and veiled comments behind the gloved hands of the women she passed as she followed in the wake of the nuns. They followed Rand down the aisle of the theater until he stopped at a long row of empty seats.

“Here we are,” he said.

The nuns filled in the seats, causing people around them to nod and smile politely when they made eye contact. Mercy was the last to take her seat and slipped into the velvet-covered chair. Rand sat down right next to her.

“You’re sitting here—with us?” she asked.

“How would it seem for your host to abandon you in favor of his family’s box seats in the balcony?” he asked in a teasing tone.

“I would imagine it would be considered rude,” Mercy said.

“Indeed it would.”

“But I’m sure the view from up there is wonderful,” she said, looking to the side at the reserved seats in the balcony.

Rand smiled. “I’m perfectly happy to sit right here beside you—and the nuns, of course.”

The houselights dimmed just as the color in Mercy’s cheeks rose.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

I am at a complete loss as to how I am supposed to act around Rand Prescott. He has come to the convent several times since that night at the theater. He always has a reason for his visit—and the reason is never me—but I can see something in his eyes that makes me think he wants me to be the reason. Mother Helena told me to be myself—nothing more. The trouble, as it has been since the minute I woke with my cuts and contusions and bullet wound, is that I don’t know who I am. I find myself daydreaming about a past I can’t remember—missing a family I don’t even know.

Tonight, while Oona slept, Deirdre told me stories about her potato farmer in whispered words that painted a picture of her lost love and of Ireland. Rolling green pastures, fields of wildflowers—shamrocks and moss and thatched roof cottages with a view of water as far as the eye can see. I asked Deirdre if she was sorry she joined the church and came to America, but she said no. She’s living the life that was planned for her since she was just a child. Nothing is ever going to change that. Not even the potato farmer. Her family is very proud of the daughter they gave to God. There is no greater sacrifice or anything more pleasing this side of heaven.

Deirdre’s stories wore her out, and she dropped off to sleep before I could even pick up my quill and begin to write. Sometimes I envy Deirdre and Oona. I envy their memories of the past—and the neat, tidy path of their future. They are already on their journey, but I have yet to find my path. And I’m afraid to let someone journey with me. It seems like a selfish thing to give my heart to someone—when it might not even be mine to give.

A loud clap of thunder brought with it the first fat drops of rain just as Rand came into view, riding Sherman with two loaded wagons behind him.

Mercy ran outside, feeling ridiculously happy. Despite the rain on her face, she smiled up at him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

He grinned back. “I brought beds for the orphans.”

The rain fell in fits and starts. “Let me go get the sisters so we can carry them inside,” she said. “Bring the wagon around back.”

The sisters were a force to be reckoned with when they put their collective minds and bodies into a task. With help from Rand and the wagon drivers, the women thrummed along together, lifted the wooden framed beds from the wagons, and hurried them into the addition of the convent—and out of the rain pelting everything in sight. Rand and Mother Helena received the last of the beds that Sister Ruth was pushing toward them from the back end of the wagon. Rand looked over at the old nun as she blinked against the rain, water soaking the band across her forehead.

“I’m sorry about this, Mother Helena,” he said. “I had completely forgotten what day it was when I went to pick up the beds.”

Mother Helena laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Rand! This is a wonderful surprise and an absolute answer to prayer. Sunday makes it all the more perfect, dear boy!”

Between them, they hefted the bed through the doors of the orphanage and placed it beside a dozen others already on the floor. Mother Helena looked around at the room, and her eyes filled with tears.

“Sisters … a prayer.”

The nuns all obediently stopped what they were doing and bowed their heads. With a synchronized sign of the cross from the women, Mother Helena spoke up in her musical brogue and offered simple, heartfelt words.

“Heavenly Father, You know our needs before we do. And You answer our prayers in Your most perfect timing. Thank You for these beds, this place, and the children I know will be arriving.”

While the women had their heads down in supplication, Rand took the opportunity to study Mercy. She was wearing the same yellow dress he’d seen her wearing in the garden, and it was a beautiful splash of color in the room. She stood with her head dutifully bowed and her hands clasped.

“We thank You for the generosity of a man like Rand, who has proven to be Your loving servant. Amen.”

Rand heard his name, registered the
amen
that had just been uttered, but still couldn’t take his eyes from Mercy. When she raised her head, her gaze went straight to his—but then she quickly glanced away. The conflict he saw in her eyes disappointed him. He was sure they’d made some kind of a connection on his visits, but he never could seem to break through the polite reserve she kept in place. He was running out of excuses to visit the convent. This bed delivery was the last of the plans he’d made for the sisters, and the thought made him feel as gloomy as the rainy day.

“Sister Constance?” Mother Helena said. “Maybe this morning we will end our fast and have some of your delicious soup?”

Constance bobbed her head. “Yes, Mother. I will have it ready posthaste.”

Mother Helena looked at Rand. “It’s coming down in sheets out there. You must stay.”

“Thank you, Mother,” he said.

“And let Mercy help you see to your horses. They can be tucked into the barn with Lucky,” she finished.

Rand thought the horse was aptly named. He was a lucky horse indeed to have Mercy as his mistress.

The wagon drivers made quick work of unhitching the horses and led the animals into the dry barn, just behind Mercy and Rand, who attended to Sherman.

Mercy had worn a shawl around her shoulders to ward off the rain, but the two of them were soaked through by the time Sherman was settled.

His horse nickered his appreciation and shivered as Mercy ran her hand over his flanks and down his nose. “There now,” she said. “Much better in here, isn’t it?”

Rand looked around the small barn and thought how much bigger Sherman appeared in here than in the large stables at his home. For a flash of a second, he imagined Lucky standing in a stall in his stable, right next to Sherman.

Lucky snorted and pushed his chest against the stall. Mercy laughed, pulled the wet shawl from her shoulders and shook it out as she approached him. She kissed his nose. “Big baby,” she said affectionately. “Big, jealous baby.”

She turned from the horses to look out the big barn door where a waterfall of rain cascaded off the roof. “It’s raining even harder now,” she said. “I think we missed our opportunity to run back into the convent without drowning.”

“I don’t mind if you don’t,” he said boldly.

“It
is
nice and dry,” she responded. “And I’m sure the horses like the company.”

“I like
your
company,” he told her.

A moment of conflict in her eyes was replaced by a smile. “Always a gentleman, aren’t you?”

“Except for the times I’m aiming a gun at beautiful young women,” he said, returning her smile.

“In your defense,” she said, “you didn’t know I was a woman.”

His smile dropped, and his expression turned serious. “To this day, I can’t imagine how I made that mistake.”

He watched her cheeks flush with color before she turned to look back out the barn door. He wished the rain would continue for hours so he could stay in the barn with her. He moved to stand beside her—so close their arms touched.