The Solitary Envoy (31 page)

“I turned twenty-one in May, ma’am.” Erica steeled herself for some comment over her unmarried state.

Instead, the woman merely said, “I married young. But I lost my first husband early on. I was carrying my son at the time. The only child I was able to bear, as it turned out.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Crowley.”

“Thank you, dear. I met my second husband while visiting England. I suppose you’ve heard the tale of the Harrow family’s earlier turmoil.”

“I’m not certain I ever quite understood it all,” Erica replied delicately.

“The tales, though no doubt confusing, are indeed true. I was switched at birth with your grandmother. This saved my life. I was not a healthy child, you see, and the Acadian expulsion would have been more than I could have survived. Nicole became a sister to me after we were reunited as adults. She has been lost to us these many years, of course. As fine a woman as ever walked this earth. And her husband was remarkable. But Gordon must have passed on before you were born. Did you have occasion to know your grandmother, Nicole Harrow Goodwind?”

“We met several times, when I was still very young.” Erica recalled how charmed she had been as a child by her grandmother’s smile, the shining eyes, and the way every word carried a musical lilt. “And the stories of your son being made heir to a vast fortune, this was true as well?”

“It is strange to think of, I know. But my son was indeed named heir to Uncle Charles’ estate. What is even more remarkable is that this took place only after your own grandmother refused the honors. But Charles lost everything through his backing of America in its battle for independence. He was such a dear and honorable man.” Anne was silent for a time, then said, “Forgive me. I have quite forgotten how I came to be speaking of such matters.”

“You mentioned meeting your husband,” Erica supplied, touched deeply by the woman’s evident grief.

“My recently departed husband, Thomas is his name, he was such a good man. My son now pastors the Manchester church where Thomas served the final years of our life together.” Anne spoke in a voice as gentle as her gaze. “I suppose I should say that nearly four decades of happiness is enough for any person. But it is not true. I was not ready for this. My life …” She clenched her jaw so as to halt the sudden tremble to her lips. But her eyes welled over. Finally she managed, “I miss the dear man so very, very much.”

They sat, joined together thus, for a time. Mrs. Crowley finally straightened in her seat and asked, “Do you have a suitor back in America pining for your return?”

“I fear not, ma’am. I did have a young man who was interested in courting me some time back. His name was Horace Cutter.”

“Indeed. Was he strong and dashing?”

“He was … a very kind young man.”

“Ah. A family arrangement, was it?”

“My mother thought a great deal of him,” Erica replied.

“And approved of his family, no doubt.”

“He is brother to Lavinia Aldridge.”

“I see.” The older woman nodded sagely. “Even so, I should imagine a striking young woman such as yourself has had no end of suitors.”

“My family has been beset by problems, ma’am.”

“Ah. Of course. Your mother’s letter was quite circumspect, but I gathered you have experienced great trials of your own.”

“Nothing like yours, I am certain.”

“Pain is pain,” Mrs. Crowley replied simply. “And what of this gentleman for whom you are traveling north?”

Erica retreated somewhat. “It is all rather complicated.”

“Such matters often are.” The gentle gaze turned keener. “A word of advice, my dear. When love comes calling, let nothing come between you and the beckoning of your heart. Not logic nor all the demands of an overfull life. Do not pretend that a better time will come, or a better man, or even that duty has any right to stand between you and destiny. For destiny it is, I assure you.”

Mrs. Crowley rose up higher and spoke with the authority of long experience. “God is love; we hear that all our lives. Yet when the time comes for love to appear in the form of an earthly mate, we are likely to pretend that we can do without. What utter folly that is, my dear. You must recognize it as the divine gift that it is and take the human flaws as merely part of the mystery.”

The woman turned and stared at the candle, and a yearning poured forth with the words. “For that is what love truly is. A mystery we can never divine. One that comes when we least expect and departs when we are not ready.”

The morning’s journey began as the night had ended, with two women who scarcely knew each other sitting comfortably in the other’s presence. Erica watched avidly as they proceeded through Coventry and began their passage through the region known as Midlands. Mrs. Crowley did not speak any more than the previous day, but there was a different air to the carriage just the same. At noontime they brought out the picnic basket prepared by the innkeeper and lunched upon bread and soft-churned butter and good cheddar and fresh strawberries. That afternoon the road improved, and the carriage rocked gently. The air was filled with the songs of birds and the bleating of sheep, the creak of wheels and the regular footfalls of the horses, and the smells of summer mowing.

Erica poured them both mugs of fresh-pressed cider and confessed, “I have spent much of the morning reflecting upon what you said last night. I was wondering …”

“Yes?”

She sipped, lowered the mug, and fastened her gaze upon it. “I fear I would not know love if ever I chanced upon it.”

The silence drew on until Erica found she could no longer keep her face turned down.

Mrs. Crowley had clearly been waiting for her to look up, for she asked, “Are you a believer, my dear?”

Again the question, once more the sense of being returned to their upstairs parlor and the last discussion Erica had had with her own mother. “All my life I have considered myself such.”

“And now?”

Erica struggled to put her unfinished thoughts in some order. “God has always been a part of the natural order. He has resided in His house. I have visited Him there. Then I have left and returned to my own life.”

Mrs. Crowley smiled for the first time since they had begun the journey. In a heartbeat all the seams and shadows of her face softened. She asked once more, “And now?”

“Everything is changing,” Erica said, striving to use spoken words as a means of sorting through a jumble of disconnected thoughts. “I am meeting people who, well …”

“Who challenge you,” Mrs. Crowley offered, still smiling. “Who suggest there is more to the divine friendship than visiting with God once a week.”

“They have what I do not,” Erica agreed.

“A moral compass,” Mrs. Crowley said. “A prayer life so strong it offers them an occasional glimpse of eternity. A connection with their Maker that helps them find their way through all of life’s many muddles.”

“Just so.” Erica leaned back in the carriage seat. How different it was to be so open with a stranger. And yet, how right it felt. When she looked back at her earlier years and the way she had insisted upon meeting every challenge alone,
that
seemed so very peculiar to her now. Why had she felt so obligated to confront every obstacle without help?

As soon as she asked the question, she knew the answer. Pride. She had wanted to prove to herself and to the world that she could. That she was good enough. That she was strong enough.

The carriage traveled through a village, past an afternoon market of some dozen or so stalls. Erica noted everything outside her window but saw little of it. The truth was, she could not meet all of life alone. Nobody was that strong. She could see this now. Did it make her a failure? Did it make her any less able?

She turned her gaze back to Mrs. Crowley, who continued to watch and wait. No, Erica decided. It only made her open.

Erica said quietly, “You are a friend.”

The older woman rewarded her with yet another smile. “I have every confidence,” she said, “that you will learn to hear your Father’s voice more clearly. And as you do, you will also learn to hear your destiny when it calls.”

Manchester was a bustling city of squat brick and stone structures and crowds as dense as London’s. Smokestacks belched great plumes to a sullen sky. The city’s multitude of warehouses and factories marched in lockstep to a grim future. As they left the periphery and moved toward the center, the sky darkened further still. By the time they halted before a lovely townhouse of lead-paned windows and dressed stone, a light rain was falling.

There was brief consternation among the members of the household at Mrs. Crowley’s unexpected return, for there had not been time to send word. Her son and his family were off attending a conference in Scotland, although Erica soon learned there were three other people who shared the space as well: a young gentleman who served as assistant pastor in Mrs. Crowley’s son’s church, his wife, and an older woman who clearly did very little but had been with the family for years. There was also a young couple that looked after the house and did the cooking. The place smelled wonderful with spicy fragrances emanating from the kitchen.

Now that she was here, Erica had no idea what she was to do. Yet the customary sense of helplessness did not flood her. She unpacked her few things, sat down on the side of the bed, and closed her eyes. A quick prayer, not much of one, but quite a big step for a young lady who before had always used a prayer book to talk with God. And even then, it was not really a prayer, not in the sense of talking with a friend. Erica’s eyes shot open at that thought. Never in her life had she considered a
friendship
with God. The concept seemed fairly scandalous. She found herself recalling the grand church in Washington with its huge stained-glass windows and soaring stone edifice. Then she thought of her mother and how Mildred Langston’s new church possessed far less beauty but far more heart.

Erica rose from the bed feeling as close to her mother as she had since her arrival in England. She found Mrs. Crowley in the kitchen and confessed, “I have no idea what I should do.”

“How refreshing. I often feel the same these days, but I scarcely ever have the courage to admit it. Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“Yes, please.” She waited until the steaming cup was set before her to observe, “You are smiling a great deal more than at the beginning of our journey.”

“I suppose I am.”

“You must be very glad to be home.”

“I dreaded making this journey back to Manchester.”

“Why?”

“Because it was here that I sat helplessly and watched my beloved husband fade away.” Yet there was little sorrow to the words. Mrs. Crowley looked at Erica over the rim of her cup. “You have proved a tonic, my dear.”

Erica still found it very difficult to accept such compliments. She changed the subject with, “Do you have any idea how I can learn about this march?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

Together they rose and went into the front of the house, where the other occupants of the house were gathered. Erica noticed how all three of them treated her hostess. She saw the love in their eyes, the kindness in their voices. They spoke of her deceased husband as though he had just popped out for a newspaper and would be back soon.

It was the young pastor who offered, “I have heard tell of such a march.”

“When is it, do you know that?”

“Rumors swirl about all the time. You know how it is, with the troubles and all.”

Shadows flitted across all the gathered faces. Mrs. Crowley said, “Let us leave that for another time or we will never be done with it. You were saying about the rumors.”

“The march is planned to finish up in the main square, St. Peter’s Field.”

“It can’t possibly,” Mrs. Crowley cried.

“That’s what they’re saying. It’s to be all peaceable-like, so as not to have trouble.”

“But they must know there will be trouble,” she replied, rising from her chair in distress. “The authorities can’t permit such a march to take place right in the center of things.”

“What I said myself, ma’am. But you know how desperate the situation is growing. And these folks, well, they aim on being heard.”

“They’ll be more than heard, I fear,” Mrs. Crowley replied. “I fear that very much indeed.”

Erica interrupted, “Please, I don’t understand what you are saying.”

The little group seemed reluctant to tell her anything more. Finally her aunt said, “I am a Dissenter. You are aware of what this means?”

“A little. I have attended one of your services, and I have read several articles on the issue.”

“The troubles are very grave and growing worse. The enclosure laws have driven many of the small farmers off their land. Many never even knew the land they tilled for generations was in fact not theirs but belonged to the local manor. Modern farming methods require open fields and better drainage and a more careful usage of fertilizer and such. Or so they tell me. All I can tell you is the new laws favor the rich and cause the poor to suffer greatly.” Mrs. Crowley twisted the handkerchief she held into a worried knot. “As we shall no doubt see Monday.”