A Blessed Song for Their Love by Olivia Haywood
Chapter 1
Wilmington, Delaware
Spring 1879
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the pastor intoned, and Laura was called forward to sprinkle the first handful of earth upon the coffin. She gazed down at it through a mist of tears and saw it lying six feet below the surface of the ground where she stood, a woman and yet still a child missing her mother.
Gone too soon, and why? Laura wondered. But then she glanced up as she dragged her free hand across her tears, and her vision cleared—only to see her stepfather’s cold, heartless eyes upon her. He was the reason why her beloved mother was lying in an early grave. She released the handful of earth onto the coffin, hearing it rattle against the lid of the wooden box as it fell.
Laura stifled a sob, feeling bereft, so alone and with nobody to even whisper a word of comfort in her ear.
“You are not alone, child,” the pastor said, taking her hand. “May the Lord grant you comfort.”
The words fell upon her ears but failed in their purpose, leaving her as cold and alone as before. No doubt the man of God offered the same solace to others similarly bereaved. Yet, Laura thought, there was no possible comfort that could ease the heart-wrenching pain of losing a mother in whose womb she’d once dwelt securely and in whose arms she’d once found strength.
Now she stood like a blade of grass in the wind, tossed to and fro, bending this way and that. A victim of her circumstances, unable to put up any effective resistance against the hand of fate. She couldn’t change what had happened. She was unable to bring her mother back from her early grave. So, she surrendered to the will of God and did her best to put her faith and trust in Him.
Her stepfather was glaring at her, and she realized that she was still staring open-mouthed at the pastor. She needed to acknowledge what he had just said.
“Yes, thank you, Pastor John,” she murmured. In her heart, the words that her mother often repeated from the Bible returned to her. Psalms 46:1-2: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore, we will not fear though the earth gives way . . . .”
A great sob broke forth from within her chest as the earth was shoveled over her mother’s grave, filling up the yawning, six-foot-deep hole, severing forever all physical ties between her and the one person who had unconditionally loved and cared about her.
She was engulfed by grief, the waves of sorrow crashing down over her, and Laura felt like she was drowning. She struggled for air, gasping and spluttering. The pastor’s wife sprang forward and slipped her arms around her, holding her up. She fell forward again, her body folding in two, her head upon the very earth that had just swallowed up her mother.
“Hush, child,” the pastor’s wife consoled her. “She is with Jesus. She rests in the arms of our Father now, where nobody can ever hurt her again.”
The words penetrated the mists of Laura’s sorrow. Nobody can ever hurt her again. She brushed away her tears, driving her knuckles into her eyes, and when she blinked, she could see her stepfather’s hateful gaze upon her again. He had put her mother into her grave. Him and his taunting, his abuse, his cruelty, she thought. And the pastor’s wife was right. Nobody could ever hurt her again.
She stood by the grave, looking down at the wilting bouquets of tulips and goldenrod—fading now—and remembered something her mother had said before she died. “Laura, my child, if the Lord should call me away, remember you are not alone. He is with you. But you must not stay here in this place where there is no future for you. Leave, child. There is a way out, you know. You could be a mail-order bride, and I will pray that the Lord directs you to the home of a good man who will give you a life that is far better than this.”
Laura shook her head as she recalled her mother’s advice. She couldn’t bring herself to even consider marrying a man she didn’t know when her own mother had followed an almost similar course and entered a marriage of convenience to her stepfather.
She had lived each day in misery, and eventually the pain she had endured at the hands of her husband had destroyed her. Which was not to say that Laura hadn’t looked at advertisements and thought about how fortunate she would be if she actually found somebody suitable who would offer her a way out of her current existence.
Each time, however, she failed to take the next step and respond to any of the ads because of the overwhelming fear that she would end up in a union like her mother’s.
She had even entertained the impossible hope that she would meet somebody here in her hometown. But no opportunities presented themselves. If she met a man who showed some interest in her, she would hastily back away and put as much distance as possible between them. She couldn’t form any friendships there in Wilmington because her stepfather imposed strict rules that she was forced to comply with.
These included the complete absence of permission to go out with any member of the opposite sex. When her mother fell sick and took to her bed, Laura had even been forced to stop working at the local school and devote herself to taking care of the house and her mother. She had nothing left outside of the house to bring relief, and absolutely no hope of meeting someone who would rescue her from her life of servility.
She began to understand why her mother had urged her to think of being a mail-order bride. At least it provided an avenue of escape.
Laura glanced up again at her stepfather, a man who appeared to feel nothing at all over the death of his wife. She began to weigh the prospect of living in the same house as him with that of marrying a man she had never met before and moving hundreds of miles away. But she was wrenched out of her musings by her stepfather’s harsh voice urging her to stop staring at her mother’s grave and get home, where there was work to be done.
Back at her stepfather’s house, Laura preparing to cook the evening meal when a neighbor, Hannah Willow, knocked on the door and handed her a pot of stew.
“Take heart, child,” the elderly lady whispered. “‘If God be for us, who then can be against us?’”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hannah,” Laura replied.
“Romans 8:31,” the woman said, citing the Scripture she’d just quoted.
“It was one of my mother’s many favorite Scriptures to quote,” Laura remarked. “You are very kind to bring us this stew.”
“You eat some and get your strength up,” Mrs. Hannah said.
“Who was that?” Laura’s stepfather asked.
“Only Mrs. Willow from next door,” Laura answered. “She brought us a pot of stew.”
“That doesn’t mean you can slack off and not cook the evening meal,” her stepfather growled. “Here, give me that stew!”
He snatched the pot from her hands and tossed it onto the floor. Laura involuntarily dived forward to rescue the nourishing meal, but was too late. Precious meat and vegetables slopped onto the wooden floorboards, and the gravy splashed against one of the walls. Laura wanted to cry out but had to hold her emotions in. She could smell the alcohol on her stepfather’s breath, and she was afraid.
“Now get to work!” her stepfather shouted. “And clean up this mess. Then cook us a meal.”
Laura suppressed her tears and, after cleaning, started to chop vegetables, her mind going over the ads she had seen in the newspaper earlier that day. She set a dish of boiled vegetables and some bread on the table, then escaped to her room and bolted the door. She lay down in her bed and fell into an exhausted sleep.
It seemed as if it was only moments later that there was a thumping on the door, and Laura sprang awake. Looking at the clock on the wall, she saw that it was six o’clock in the morning, and the pounding on the door was most likely her stepfather. Sitting there in her bed, she could just about see the colors of the sunrise splashed across the sky. The sound of sparrows’ chatter filled the silence until it was drowned by her stepfather’s harsh voice.
“Get out and get down to work,” he shouted through the closed door. “Don’t think I’ll stand for you slacking off like that mother of yours did.”
Laura blanched at the reference to her mother, and her heart ached. She missed her so much. What was she going to do?
She dragged herself out of bed and used the ewer and basin on her nightstand to wash up. Then she changed out of her night clothes and wore a fresh dress and apron. Going out into the living room, she saw that her stepfather had begun the day with a bottle of whiskey. She tried to pretend that he wasn’t there and went to make breakfast.
She hadn’t eaten for almost an entire day, and her body was weak. She quickly buttered some bread and was about to eat when she sensed that her stepfather had moved from his seat on the couch. She could smell his odious breath right behind her and froze in fear. She remembered how he would pound her mother with his fists and throw her across the room in an alcohol-induced rage.
“So,” he slurred, lurching forward, “you eat my food, but you can’t do the work you’re supposed to?”
Laura felt like her tongue was held fast to the roof of her mouth. She tried to respond to her stepfather but found herself incapable of doing so.
I work so hard, she wanted to say. This house is kept spick and span because of all the backbreaking hours I spend cleaning it. But her reply was conveyed in silence as she stared down at her feet, the slice of bread and butter falling to the floor from her trembling fingers.
“Now you throw away my hard-earned money?” her stepfather growled. “And what gives you the right to do that? Do you even know how much this bread cost me?”
Laura tried to nod—to speak—but once again, she was struck dumb by fear. She tried to lean over to pick up the bread but felt her body pressed down to the floor. Her stepfather had grabbed her arm and shoved her down, causing her to fall to her knees and suppress a cry of pain. In that attitude of submission, she sent up a silent prayer to God to spare her from her stepfather’s wrath. She dared not look up at him as he ranted on. “Start scrubbing!” he yelled, thrusting a mop, brush, and bucket toward her. The bucket was empty. She would have to fill it. The thoughts coursed through her brain, but she didn’t have the courage to even stand up at that moment and go outside to the tap.
“Scrub!” her tormentor shouted, and Laura mutely began to drag the brush across the dry floor. She reached for the slice of bread as she did so, but her stepfather’s foot came down hard upon it, grinding it down into the floorboard.
“Oh no, you don’t!” he snarled. “You will not get a morsel out of me, you won’t. You and that pathetic mother of yours didn’t deserve to even live in this home, yet I gave you a roof over your heads and put food in your belly.”
Laura was choked with tears again, remembering all the years that her mother worked as a washerwoman to put food on their table as her stepfather gambled and drank away all his earnings as a lumberjack at the local saloon.
She remembered Jesus’s words on the cross—“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do,”—and kept dragging the brush across the floor as her stepfather ranted on. Even from her position on the floor, she could smell the whiskey on his breath, and her hands shook, and the brush slipped out of her hand. Was this going to be her life from now on?
“You remember, girl, you are going to take care of me and this house for the rest of your life, you hear?” her stepfather said, leaning over her as she crouched on the floor, shaking. “You will not go out or meet anyone. In any case, nobody is going to even want to marry a sorry figure like you, you hear?” he shouted, the words piercing her ears and causing her to quake from within.
Laura prayed that he would fall asleep. She didn’t know how long she would last until she completely passed out from hunger and emotional exhaustion. But her stepfather was relentless. He poured himself another glass of whiskey and continued to drink and rail against Laura and her departed mother.
“The floor isn’t clean!” he remarked, leaning over to nudge her as she continued to drag the brush across the floor.
Laura opened her mouth to say that she needed to fetch some water in the bucket, but all that she could emit was a word.
“Water,” she said.
“Oh, you want water, do you? Thirsty, are you?” the man slurred, his speech severely hampered by his state of extreme inebriation.
Laura tried to point at the bucket, indicating that it needed to be filled, but she was aware that nothing she said would have any effect. Her stepfather was not going to even want to comprehend anything that she conveyed. He was determined to find a way to abuse her.
Eventually she heard a heavy thud and looked over to her right, where she saw that he had slumped over on the floor. His body twitched, and he fell onto his back and began to snore. Laura waited only a moment to ascertain that he had indeed passed out before getting to her feet.
Her legs buckled from weakness, and she walked slowly to the kitchen and got herself another slice of bread and some butter. As she ate it, she realized that she would have to prepare a meal before her stepfather woke up. She reached for another slice of bread and slipped it into the pocket of her dress.
Then, very quietly, she opened the back door and went into the yard.
There was a gap in the fence that Laura and her mother used to slip through to take a walk down to the woods nearby. Laura was drawn to it now, and she slid through, her thin body passing quite easily from the opening into the freedom beyond. She turned her face up to the sky, wondering if this was the point at which she should run and not look back.
But there was nothing to run to. She dropped onto her knees on the path just outside the fence. She could see the woods up ahead, and yet she was acutely aware of the house behind the fence where her stepfather lay in a stupor, and a sense of despair came upon her. She wept.
All her life, she had never been able to express her pain or even talk about it. She had concealed it even from her mother, not wishing to add to her miseries. But now she felt helpless, with nobody to turn to except God.
“Dear Lord,” she said as she cried, “please help me. Please show me a way out of this situation. I don’t know what to do or which way to turn, so show me the way, please, Lord.”
As she glanced up, a piece torn out of a newspaper caught her eye. It fluttered in the breeze and was blown toward her. But then the wind changed direction, and it rolled away from her. Inexplicably drawn to the piece of newspaper, Laura got to her feet and followed it.
It was now at her feet, and Laura leaned over to pick it up. She did so as if in a dream, drawn by some unseen force to retrieve it. As her fingers gripped it and she straightened up, an ad on the page stood out from the rest of the print: “Kansas rancher needs governess.” Laura took a deep breath.
She had never considered the option of seeking employment outside of Wilmington. The only alternative she’d thought available was that of a mail-order bride. But to have a job, earn her own livelihood, and also get away from her stepfather . . . that was an answer to her prayer. She’d once taught at the local school but had left when her mother fell ill and became bedridden. To think of employment away from Wilmington gave her great hope.
Should I toss the paper aside? Or should I hide it in my pocket, take it home, and respond to the advertisement? Could this be a sign from God?
What were the odds that the moment she stepped out of the house because her stepfather had fallen into a drunken sleep, she would find an ad ripped out from a newspaper? Laura’s brain swam with questions. She tucked the paper into her pocket and went back inside the house.
She would sleep over it, she decided. But then, as she entered the house and saw her stepfather still lying on the floor but stirring, she felt a stab of fear. She realized then that she would far rather take her chances on an advertisement that had mysteriously landed at her feet than remain in her current situation.
Once in her room, Laura went down on her hands and knees and peered under her bed, glad for the light that streamed in through the window that helped her find what she was looking for: a box containing some sheets of paper, a pen, and some ink.
Glancing around the room, which contained only her narrow bed, a closet, and a nightstand, she chose to sit on the side of the bed and rest a sheet of paper on her nightstand. Then she read the advertisement again: “Twenty-six-year-old Kansas rancher needs Christian governess to help raise infant boy. Housekeeping skills are necessary. Must have basic education.”
The advertisement was concise, and so was Laura’s response. She wrote the letter in haste and carefully enclosed it in one of the envelopes that lay along with the sheets of writing paper. She would have to find an opportune moment to go to the post office the next day and send the letter on its way to Kansas, she thought.