Bribing the Blacksmith Page 11
Chapter Fifteen
Mrs. Gladstone helped arrange the veil over Mariah’s hair, then stepped back and clasped her hands. “Oh, my dear, you look beautiful,” she said. “I could never have dreamed any bride could look as beautiful as you do right now.”
Mariah reached out and gave the woman a hug. “Thank you so much for everything, Mrs. Gladstone,” she said. “You truly saved me when I arrived here. If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t believe I would have survived.”
“Oh, you would have survived, but I made it a lot more fun,” Mrs. Gladstone said with a twinkle in her eye. “Now, you’ve heard from your mother?”
“Yes, she responded to my telegram. She’s sorry not to be here for the wedding, but says she’ll plan a trip out as soon as she’s able.”
“It’s too bad that she won’t make it, but we wouldn’t want to risk the wrath of Reverend Bing by waiting, would we?” Mrs. Gladstone beamed at her. “Thank you for the joy you’ve given me this past week, Mariah. I’ve felt alive again, being able to help you and to see you find true love. You and Hans and those boys—you were made to be together, and you will become the most wonderful, loving family imaginable. The boys will have a beautiful childhood, thanks to you, and the hurt they feel over the deaths of their parents will fade into loving memories. That’s a gift you’ll give them.”
Mariah wiped a tear from her cheek. “Thank you. What a lovely thing to say.”
A knock on the door signaled that it was time. Mariah gave Mrs. Gladstone a smile, and just moments later, she was walking up the aisle toward her groom.
As Reverend Bing said the words that would bind them together as husband and wife, she looked into Hans’s eyes and was overwhelmed by the love she saw in them. They didn’t know each other well, but she couldn’t wait to discover everything about him. He had a little scar between his eyebrows—she wanted to know what put it there and if it had hurt. She had already laughed with him and cried with him, and she knew they could weather every emotion together. She could so easily see the fulfillment of Mrs. Gladstone’s wedding blessing—they would make a wonderful family.
Toria Jackson had volunteered to take the boys for the night, and her husband Mortimer and stepson John had worked for hours the previous day to whitewash the interior of Hans’s house to make it bright and beautiful. Mariah couldn’t think of a better place to spend their honeymoon than in their own home, made lovely by their friends.
“You know, I didn’t marry you because I had to,” Hans said after he carried her over the threshold and set her down on the other side.
“Oh? Why did you, then?” she asked, wrapping her arms around his waist.
“I married you because I had to.”
She quirked an eyebrow. “What? You’re not making any sense.”
He bent down and kissed her nose. “I didn’t marry you because I thought Reverend Bing would insist on it. I married you because my heart gave me no other choice. Getting slapped in the face with wet laundry, having to salt my own food . . . you were pretty irresistible.”
“I’ve always believed that the way to a man’s heart is by slapping him with laundry,” Mariah said.
He grinned, but then his smile faded. “Seeing how you are with the boys. Watching you sitting in the dirt on the side of the road, holding Preston and saying all the things I’d never think to say in a million years. Piecing up the broken bits and making us whole. You’re an astonishing woman, Mariah. And I have to say, you feel so very good in my arms.”
“I’m very glad you feel that way, Mr. Jensen, because I have absolutely no intention of ever being out of your arms again for as long as I live.”
“You realize that’s going to make it very hard for me to do my job,” he pointed out.
She snuggled into his chest. “We’ll figure something out.”
***
Mariah nearly had everything the way she wanted it. She and Hans had been working on it together every day for a week—whitewashing the rest of the house, hanging curtains, getting the boys a bed frame. They thought it was great and helped all they could, and she loved how they were able to come together and create a home that suited each of them and represented their tastes so well.
“You know, I just realized something,” Mariah said as she rummaged through her dresser drawer late one night. “I think I left some hairpins at Mrs. Gladstone’s. I’ll run over there tomorrow and get them. I’m surprised she hasn’t come by—she’s probably trying to give us some space.”
“Yes, newlyweds that we are,” Hans said teasingly.
The next morning, Mariah fed everyone breakfast, then took the boys out for a walk. “We’re going to see Mrs. Gladstone,” she said as they headed that direction. “You remember her—the lady sitting across the way from me on the train.”
“I’m not very good at names,” Peter told her.
“Me too,” Preston replied.
She smiled. Preston had been saying more and more ever since he put the drawing of the angel in his pocket, and she rejoiced in everything he chose to say. She had already known that he was a very special little boy, and now she felt like she was getting the chance to know him even better as he spoke.
They turned down Mrs. Gladstone’s street. “This is where I lived when I first started working at your house,” she told the boys.
“Where?” Peter asked, looking confused.
“In that house,” she said, pointing, and then she blinked. That couldn’t be right. She looked around. No, they were on the right street, but Mrs. Gladstone’s house looked nothing like it had just a week before. It was a ruin—the turrets were charred, the roof had holes, the porch was broken off and sagging. “I . . . I don’t understand,” she said. “I lived here. I lived in this house, and it was beautiful.”
“It’s not so bootiful anymore,” Peter replied.
Mariah turned around in a circle again. “Oh, look.” Someone was coming out of the house next door. They’d be able to help her. “Sir,” she called out. He looked up and paused before going on his way. “Excuse me, sir. I’m a bit confused. I was looking for Mrs. Gladstone’s house.”
“Yes, you’ve found it,” he said, nodding toward the charred structure.
“But what happened? Where is Mrs. Gladstone?”
He gave her a curious look. “Are you an old friend of hers, Miss . . .”
“Mrs. Jensen. I wouldn’t say we’re old friends—I only met her this last month.”
He shook his head. “Ma’am, I don’t know what to tell you, but Mrs. Gladstone has been dead for nearly five years.”
Mariah took a stumbling step backwards. “Dead? That’s impossible. She was at my wedding two weeks ago.”
The man gave her a kind look. “I’m her nephew. Why don’t you come inside—I have a portrait of her over my fireplace, and you can tell me if that’s the woman you mean.”
Mariah nodded numbly and followed him inside, the boys trailing along like little ducks. “This is my aunt,” the man said, coming to a stop in front of the fireplace. “She was the kindest soul alive. She spent her days serving others, insisting that all her blessings meant nothing if she couldn’t share them. She told me once that if she had her wish, she’d be a guardian angel once she reached the other side, and I believe that she’d make a perfect one.”
“I do too,” Mariah said, dumbfounded to see the face of her own dear Mrs. Gladstone staring down at her from above the mantel. “Five years, you say?”
“That’s right. Are you well, ma’am? Can I get you a drink of water?”
“No, thank you,” she said, managing a smile. “Thank you for your time.”
She herded the boys back toward home, her knees shaking so much, she almost couldn’t walk. When they arrived at the house, she sat down in the front room, trying to understand everything she’d just learned. Five years . . . guardian angel . . . how was it possible? It just couldn’t be.
Preston reached up on the shelf and grabbed the Bible, then brough
t it over and climbed onto her lap. He carried his drawing of the angel everywhere he went, but he still liked to look at the original. She wrapped her arm around him to steady him while he flipped the pages.
When he reached the correct page, he looked up at her and grinned, then pointed. “Look,” he said.
Tucked in behind a cloud of glory and another singing angel was a woman who looked for all the world like Mrs. Gladstone, singing songs of praise with the choir.
“Just like the picture in that house,” Peter said, looking over her shoulder.
Yes. Just like the picture in the house. Mariah didn’t have the faintest idea how to explain it—she didn’t even know if she could try. “Thank you again, Mrs. Gladstone,” she said, hugging her boys in tight.
About Amelia C. Adams
Amelia C. Adams is a wife, a mother, an eater of chocolate, and a taker of naps. She spends her days thinking up stories and her nights writing them down. Her biggest hero is her husband, and you just might see bits and pieces of him as you read her novels.
You can reach her at ameliaadamsauthor@gmail.com.
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