If the Prospect Pleases

  If the Prospect Pleases

  Sally Laity

  Copyright

  © 1999 by Barbour Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Truly Yours, PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  prologue

  Philadelphia 1875

  Nothing would ever be the same. Ever. Annora Nolan yearned with all her heart to awaken from the nightmare. . . but the smell of the moist ground in the fenced area behind the church more than proved it was all very real.

  Last week it had been Papa, her copper-haired hero, who had succumbed to the dreaded typhoid. Now folks had gathered to lay away her soft-spoken mama as well. Clutching her damp woolen cloak closer against the chill, Annora scarcely heard the minister’s voice droning through the funeral scriptures. She was too busy praying she would die, too. . .though in her heart she doubted the plea would be granted.

  Adding to her misery, the relentless October drizzle falling from the leaden sky had fused the brilliant hues of autumn into sodden clumps of burgundy, gold, and brown, heavy masses never to be separated again. To Annora, the pathetic sight seemed a symbol of her own future, and the thought sent a desolate shiver through her as the wind plastered her wet skirt to her legs.

  Gazing at the closed coffin through a blur of tears, Annora lowered her eyelids against the ache in her heart. What would become of her now?

  “Come along, child.”

  The service must have ended. Realizing that someone had addressed her, Annora turned and looked up into the face of the Reverend Baxter’s wife, Millicent. The hazel eyes in the woman’s plump but refined features expressed abundant sympathy. “You’ll be coming home with us for the night,” she explained gently, extending a gloved hand.

  “But. . .my things. I–I need—”

  “I’ll send our housekeeper for them presently. It’s all right. Come along now.”

  Annora swept an uneasy glance from the black-clad figure to the woman’s other side, where the couple’s daughter, Mirah, stared with brown-eyed coolness at Annora from beneath the brim of her velvet and satin bonnet. An exquisitely beautiful girl two years younger than Annora, not a muscle in her perfect oval face moved, even when a sharp gust splayed a brunette ringlet across her cheek. Annora had never been fond of the overly pampered girl, but she knew she had no other recourse. After all, it was just for one night.

  ❧

  Alone in Mirah’s second-story bedroom while the younger girl visited the privy outside before turning in, Annora could hear the Reverend Baxter’s words drifting up from the room directly below. She shifted uncomfortably on the pallet that had been laid out for her on the floor.

  “Fourteen is rather old to be relegated to the Children’s Home, Millicent, my dear.”

  “I’m fully aware of that, Phineas,” his wife replied, normally the dominant voice of the household. “But I fail to see what else is to be done—short of trying to place her ourselves where she might be useful.”

  “We could assume guardianship,” the reverend went on in his familiar nasal tone. “We’ve known her since she was a young girl, and there’s hardly a more mannerly or more respectful young person in our entire flock. Besides, she has no other living relatives, and her parents numbered among the founding families of this church. It would deem us well not to overlook their support of our parish over the years.”

  “Quite. However—”

  “The matter needn’t be decided this very instant,” he interrupted, and Annora could envision any number of typical gestures he might have used to cut in. His slight frame a mere shadow in comparison to his wife’s more fleshy presence, he sounded uncharacteristically firm in his resolve. “Do not forget the influential families among our congregation who look favorably upon such acts of benevolence—who might even consider it our Christian duty to take in the girl as our ward. And it very well may be.”

  After a brief lapse, he started in again. “I shudder to imagine how tongues would wag should we turn their daughter out in her hour of need.”

  Annora held her breath in the ensuing pregnant silence while her fate was being decided downstairs.

  “Bear in mind,” the pastor continued, “the girl would be a help to Nellie, to say nothing of being company for our dear Mirah. We’ve always wished God had blessed us with another child. Perhaps this is His way of granting that wish.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” A note of optimism rang in his wife’s tone. “The idea might have merit after all.”

  “What idea?” Mirah asked sweetly, obviously having come back inside.

  “Mirah, dear, your father and I were relating how wonderful it might be for you if we were to have another young girl living with us. Someone near your own age to keep you company.”

  “Oh.”

  The tightly contained emotion in the answer made Annora cringe, and tears stung her eyes. It was no secret among the young people at church that Mirah Baxter reveled in her lofty position as only child, daughter of the pastor. Her gifts went beyond mere exotic beauty to exceptional musical talent as well. And when Annora had been chosen over her as soloist in the last two recitals, she had pouted for days. . .but never in the presence of her parents, before whom she maintained guileless behavior at all times.

  No, Mirah would not welcome having to share her life of privilege, especially with a foundling who happened to be a little older than herself and who might be given extra privileges for that reason. Annora drew the quilts more snugly around her, trying to squelch feelings of mortification threatening to overwhelm even her unspeakable grief.

  “We’ve not as yet undertaken permanent arrangements,” the minister explained. “We’re merely considering possibilities.”

  “Then permit me to voice my feelings, Father,” Mirah pleaded. “I far prefer things as they have always been—you, Mother, and me. Pray, let’s keep it that way. Please?”

  “I’ll give your wishes proper consideration, Daughter,” the Reverend Baxter replied. “But I must weigh this matter very carefully. And be assured that my decision will be final. Now, be a good girl and go to bed. Tomorrow is another day.”

  “Yes, of course, Father,” she returned, all sweetness again. “Good night. Good night, Mother.”

  “Good night, angel.”

  As the younger girl’s slippers padded up the open staircase, Annora turned her face to the wall and feigned sleep. She was careful not to move even the slightest bit as the door swung closed—though she could almost feel Mirah’s dark eyes stabbing her like ice picks. When the rustle of embroidered silk indicated the daughter of the household had removed her wrap and slipped into the warmth of her canopied feather bed, Annora slowly released a pent-up breath. But not until Mirah’s disgruntled huffs settled into the even rhythm of sleep did Annora give in to her sorrow.

  ❧

  To her amazement, Annora found life with the Baxters quite bearable. The minister and his wife went out of their way to make her feel welcome and a part of the family, which helped immensely to get her through the initial crushing sadness over the loss of her parents. And—even more surprising—Mirah, too, seemed to accept her.

  Or so she thought.

  But when an heirloom timepiece unaccountably disappeared from Mrs. Baxter’s jewelry chest, only to turn up in the drawer designated for Annora’s belongings, things took a decided turn. Annora, her cheeks aflame as she stam
mered her denial of guilt, would remember until her dying day the shock and disappointment on her guardians’ faces. . .and the unabashed innocence on Mirah’s. That was when Annora sensed that despite all the Baxters’ well-meaning gestures toward her, she would forever remain an outsider in this home.

  And that was just the beginning.

  A spattering of other rather minor infractions pointing to Annora occurred over the next few months. But not until Mirah’s handmade quilt met its ruin did things finally come to a head.

  “I truly regret that my husband and I found it necessary to take this step, Annora,” Mrs. Baxter said, standing in the doorway of the chilly attic room. She had the grace to look ill at ease as she flicked a glance around the stark quarters. “But since it appears the fate of your very soul is in question, you leave us no choice but to take drastic measures. One must learn there are consequences for one’s actions.

  “Hereafter, except for those periods when you are performing your duties, you will remain here by yourself until such time as we feel you are once again deserving of our trust. I suggest you use the solitude to reflect on what lies ahead of you if you do not mend your ways.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Annora gave a dutiful nod as the minister’s wife departed without further word, the sound of her button-top shoes fading to silence as she returned downstairs.

  Gloating in this, her most recent victory, Mirah leaned against the doorjamb and crossed her arms. “This should do quite nicely. . .for you.”

  Refusing to acknowledge the satisfied smirk on the younger girl’s face, Annora breezed past her with an airy smile and came the rest of the way into the tiny room graced only by the hazy light from a small dormer window. She set the belongings she’d carried up the stairs onto the narrow bedstead abutting the jointure of low wall and sloped ceiling. “Yes. It’s quite an improvement, actually. I rather like it.” Hands on her hips, she hiked her chin and looked about as if admiring the most splendid of accommodations in all of Philadelphia.

  Mirah’s jaw gaped. “Indeed. Well, now that I’ve managed to oust you from my room, I’ll concentrate on the next step—getting you out of this house. It should be a simple enough feat, I’m sure.” A vicious sneer moved across her proud lips.

  Unable to come up with a suitable retort, Annora presented her back.

  The Baxter’s stout housekeeper, Nellie Henderson, trudged in from the landing just then, her arms filled with bedding. She dumped the burden on the cot. “La, such a climb,” she panted, placing one hand over her cushiony bosom, which rose and fell in time with her labored breathing. Her fair cheeks remained a bright rosy pink beneath her faded blond coronet until the short gasps lengthened to more normal intervals.

  “Sorry you’ve gone to so much trouble,” Annora said with true concern, ignoring Mirah’s blatant look of contempt as the younger girl turned on her heel and traipsed back downstairs.

  Mrs. Henderson glanced after her, then met Annora’s gaze with a shake of her frazzled head. “This is a fair disgrace, miss, that’s what it is,” she said in a near whisper. “Puttin’ a young thing like you way up here by yourself, with us still in the throes of winter. You’ll not have a lick of heat, except what might waft up from below. Don’t know what madam is thinkin’. She and the reverend have always been such soft-hearted folks, up till now.”

  “Oh, well, no matter how cold the attic gets, it’ll be nothing compared to what I had to endure sharing their only daughter’s room,” Annora muttered. Then she flushed with embarrassment. “Forgive me. That must sound ungrateful. It was more than unselfish of the reverend and his wife to become my guardians. They’ve been nothing but generous and loving to me.”

  “Yes, well, nobody except the two of us knows who really rules this household,” the older woman continued with an understanding nod. “Let me tell you, things changed around here once that little dickens made her appearance in the world. And not for the better, I don’t mind sayin’. The way her parents dote on her. . .tsk tsk. Of course, she acts the perfect angel around them. But to think they actually believed you would deliberately pour a bottle of ink over the counterpane her grandmother finished mere weeks before she died!”

  Slowly wagging her head, the woman bent over and began unfolding the topmost quilt on the pile she’d brought upstairs.

  “Please, you needn’t do this,” Annora said, gathering the heavy folds the housekeeper was in the process of shaking out. “I’ll make my own bed, then I’ll come and help with dinner.”

  “Well,” came the hesitant response, “if you’re sure. I must say, it’s been a blessing havin’ an extra pair of hands since you arrived, what with lookin’ after the parsonage and the church by myself since old Mr. Baldwin crossed over.”

  Annora smiled. “I don’t mind daily chores. I’d rather keep busy than sit around reading dime novels and eating bonbons.”

  “Like Her Highness, you mean. Well, one of these days the little miss is sure to get her comeuppance. See if she don’t. The Lord will see to that in His time.” With a conspiratorial wink, the housekeeper nodded and moved toward the doorway but paused briefly before departing. “Now that you’ve got a room to yourself,” she began, grimacing as her glance swept the dismal quarters, “there’s somethin’ you should know. I managed to rescue a few of your mama’s special things for you. . .kept them out of the auction that was held to pay your father’s creditors.”

  “You didn’t!” Filled with the first real comfort she’d felt since her parents had passed away, Annora flew to give her a hug.

  “Now, now,” the amiable woman murmured, patting Annora’s back before easing away. “I couldn’t see how a few baubles would make a lick of difference one way or the other. Anyways, a gal should have somethin’ to remind her of her family. I was waitin’ for a time when Miss Uppity wouldn’t be stickin’ her royal nose into your business. We can tote them up after while, when you and me fetch the rest of your clothes and things.”

  “Thank you. Oh, thank you, Mrs. Henderson.”

  “ ’Twas the least I could do, miss. Only right you should have them. Oh, and I’m sure I can rummage up some extra curtains and a rug to help brighten this place up a little. We’ll get it set to rights soon enough.”

  As the housekeeper took her leave, Annora couldn’t hold back a smile at the joyous thought of having some of Mama’s precious possessions to hold in her hands again, but it quickly wilted as she settled back and took a closer look at her bleak surroundings. Bare and harsh in its grim simplicity—to cause her to consider the consequences of her wicked ways—the place contained nothing besides the cot and a wardrobe with warped doors, but at least it was her own room. She was glad it wasn’t so cluttered with useless discarded items that she’d bump into something every time she turned around.

  Well, she told herself on a sigh, it wouldn’t help matters to sit and bawl over life’s injustices. Papa always said it was prayer that changed things. Of course, when it came to Mirah Baxter, one had to wonder if any amount of prayer could change her!

  Drawing a fortifying breath, Annora rummaged about for a sheet and flicked it out over the hard mattress. Maybe once there were curtains and a rug it would look somewhat more cheery. This haven might not be so bad after all.

  one

  Philadelphia, Summer 1878

  “Annora, wait.” As the departing crowd exited the dark wooden pews and milled toward the church doors after the Sunday service, Lesley Clark leaned around Michael Porter’s tall frame, her expressive face aglow. “Will you come to the picnic at Franklin Square next Saturday?”

  Just about to vacate the bench where she’d sat with Lesley and several other young people, Annora met her best friend’s hopeful smile and hiked a shoulder. “I’m afraid I really can’t say just yet.”

  “Why not?” Michael asked, a merry gleam in his dark brown eyes. “Cousin Jason plans to be there.”

  Annora fought to quell the stubborn blush that insisted on making an appearance whenever someone m
ade mention of Dr. Markwell’s eldest son. Easily the handsomest and most eligible young man among the younger set of Arch Street Church’s congregation, his presence within the slightest proximity of hers always caused her pulse to increase—especially since he made no secret of the fact that he sought out her company at gatherings. “Because,” she explained for the dozenth time, “you know I have extra duties to tend to at the week’s end. I’ll have to wait and see if I’m free.”

  “Oh.” Crestfallen, Lesley absently fingered a fold of her striped taffeta skirt.

  Annora reached to give her an encouraging pat, noticing as always how much bluer her friend’s eyes appeared whenever she wore an ensemble that matched their hue. “Don’t despair. I’m quite a fast worker. I’ll do my best.”

  “Splendid. Then we’ll pray you make it.” With a toss of her honey-blond waves, Lesley took her beau’s arm, and the pair headed for the vestibule.

  Thoughts of the picnic a few days hence made Annora smile as she started toward the back door for home.

  ❧

  Mirah Baxter, peering into the sanctuary from a slim crack in her father’s office door, narrowed her eyes and closed the latch without a sound. For two and a half unbearable years, she’d had to put up with that redheaded goody-goody with the unflinching green cat eyes. So she was counting on a picnic, was she? To flaunt herself around Jason Markwell. Well, more’s the pity. Mirah had designs on that young man herself. Even if he did happen to be a few years older than she might have preferred. And even if nature did seem to be taking an inordinate amount of time to endow her with measurable charms! She looked scathingly at her girlish body and frowned.

  Still, Jason met all of Mother’s criteria for a suitable match. All one had to do was get him interested. He seemed partial to sickening sweetness. . .and Mirah knew she was more than accomplished in presenting that sort of face to the world. She would just have to see to it that Annora couldn’t quite make this particular outing.