Courting Miss Adelaide. Janet Dean
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of respect for Mrs. Hartman’s untimely death, talking to William and Emma.
As Adelaide watched, Emma tentatively took Frances’s hand. William sat silent, his arms hanging limp. A woman who’d accompanied the orphans on the train joined the couple and spoke to William. Apparently overcoming his hesitation, he took his sister’s other hand.
Disappointment slammed into Adelaide’s stomach. She swayed and sank onto a nearby chair. Her children were going to live with that angry man and his spiritless wife. Helpless to act, she watched the four of them cross to the registration table. The Drummonds signed a paper and left the room before a miracle could bring those children into her arms. Didn’t God care about them? About her?
Across the way, Judge and Mrs. Willowby left with a dark-eyed, curly-haired boy in tow. The same process repeated all around the room. Soon all the orphans were spoken for and on their way to new homes.
A heavy stone of misery sparked a sudden, uncustomary anger. Adelaide approached the table where the men who’d denied her application sifted through paperwork. “How could you allow the Drummonds to have the Grounds children?”
Mr. Paul, his face turning a deep shade of crimson, leapt to his feet. “Now see here, Miss Crum, it’s not your place to criticize the decisions of this committee!”
Mr. Wylie took Mr. Paul’s arm. “No need to raise your voice, Thaddeus.” He turned to Adelaide. “The Drummonds are fine people. Ed sits on the county council, helps his neighbors. You probably heard Mrs. Drummond recently lost her mother.” He grimaced. “A few years back, their only child died in a horrible accident. They deserve this new beginning.”
Face pinched, Mr. Sparks came around the table. “You’re mistaken about the Drummonds. They pay their bills and attend church.”
Adelaide wanted to challenge their view, but that meant butting her head into that stone wall of men. Without a doubt, Frances was a good person, but she’d changed into a colorless, weary creature, perhaps downtrodden by her husband.
“Do you have proof they’re unsuitable?” Mr. Graves asked.
Adelaide moved forward. “The day of the interviews, Mr. Drummond looked very angry—”
“If that’s a crime, we’d all be in trouble.” Mr. Wylie chuckled. “I know you’ve never been married, Miss Crum, but it’s not uncommon for husbands and wives to argue.”
She tamped down her annoyance. They hadn’t seen Ed Drummond’s expression. But they’d already gone back to their paperwork, dismissing her with silence.
All except Mr. Graves, who studied her with dark, somber eyes. But he remained mute.
She turned to leave, then stepped into the bright sunlight, watching wagons and buggies roll away from the schoolhouse. Her gaze lingered on the smiling couples with youngsters.
For a moment, she regretted refusing Jack’s offer of marriage.
But then she remembered how he’d gobble dinner, barely speaking a word, and later, hands folded over a premature paunch, would fall asleep in the parlor until he roused enough to go home. No sharing of dreams, no laughter, no connection. His only thank-you for the meal was an odorous belch.
Without a doubt, her main appeal to Jack had been the income from her shop. Adelaide lifted her chin. If marriage offered no more than that, she could manage nicely without a man. But a child…A child was different.
Charles watched Miss Crum leave. What had she seen or heard that upset her enough to challenge the committee? With his own misgivings needling him, he followed her. “Miss Crum!”
She pivoted. His heart stuttered in his chest, a warning that when it came to Miss Crum, he was fast losing his objectivity. “I need to ask. What made you say the Drummonds wouldn’t make good parents?”
She met his gaze with an icy stare. “I’ve seen Ed’s temper. Frances appears heartbroken, unable to care for two children.”
“That’s understandable. She lost her mother—”
A light touch on his arm cut off his words.
“Have you ever had a bad feeling about anyone, Mr. Graves?”
“Sure.”
“Then you can understand my concern. I have a bad feeling about that man.”
As a newsman, he might use intuition to guide him, but he needed tangible evidence, not the insight of one disgruntled woman. “With nothing to base it on—”
“I know the committee’s position. They made it clear the day I applied.” She gave him a curt nod. “Good day.”
Watching her leave, he regretted the committee’s decision. No point in getting sappy about it. He wasn’t in the business of securing everyone’s happiness, even the happiness of a woman with eyes the color of a clear summer sky.
Crossing the street, he slipped between a buckboard hauling sacks of feed and a dray wagon. The image of Adelaide Crum nagged at him with a steadfastness that left him shaken.
Yet, the lady saw things as black and white, right or wrong, while he found areas of gray. Not that it mattered. He had no intention of getting involved with her, with anyone.
He had all he could do running the paper and helping his brother’s family. He didn’t want another complication in his life, in particular a complication of the female sort.
Yet something about Adelaide Crum made him question his decision.
Chapter Three
Tuesday morning Adelaide sewed pink ribbons on to a child’s bonnet, each tiny stitch made with infinite care. On the table beside her, her Bible lay closed. Unread.
As she worked, she pictured Emma Grounds, the little German girl, wearing this hat as they picked daylilies out back. She imagined bending down to gather the girl to her, nuzzling her neck, inhaling the scent of warmed skin, the scent of a child.
Sighing, she pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting tears, then knotted the final thread, snipped off the ends and laid the finished hat on her lap. In reality, a customer would buy this bonnet for her daughter or granddaughter and it would be gone, out of Adelaide’s grasp as surely as Emma.
She removed her spectacles and laid the hat on the counter. The bell jingled over the door. The sight of Laura Larson brought a smile to Adelaide’s face. Laura’s youthful spirit might be encased in a plump, matronly body, but her laughter lit up a room like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. Without her help, Adelaide couldn’t have managed the shop during her mother’s illness. “Hello!”
Laura strolled toward her, her gaze sweeping the shop. Slicked back into a bun, some of her salt-and-pepper curls escaped to frame her round unwrinkled face. “My, my, haven’t you been busy.”
Leaning on the counter, Adelaide viewed her surroundings through Laura’s eyes. Hats lined every shelf and perched on every stand. Already full when she’d become work-possessed, display cabinets burst at the seams. “I guess I’m overstocked.”
Laura giggled, sounding more like a young girl than a grandmother in her fifties. “I’d say so. Do you have some hat-making elves tucked away in the back?”
Adelaide smiled. “No, I made them all.”
“Why so many?”
What could Adelaide say? She’d been drowning her sorrow in hats? That for the past two weeks she’d been sewing, rather than praying about her problems? “Would you like some tea?”
“Tea sounds wonderful, if you have the time.”
Adelaide headed to the kettle on the tiny potbellied stove in the back. “One thing I have plenty of is time.”
“What you have plenty of, dear, is hats,” Laura said, following her.