With Love from Bliss Read online

  © 2001 by Ruth Glover

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-3933-4

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  To Lela,

  sister in all but birth

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  About the Author

  Other Books by Author

  The figure on the bed was scrunched into a ball as tightly as the human body can fold and not be in the womb. Shaken by an occasional sob or hiccup, it seemed the child, though motionless, was awake. If she was asleep, her rest was wracked by bad dreams.

  The sound of carriage wheels on the gravel below brought the small girl upright. On her cheeks were the marks of tears; her eyes were filled with something more than misery—something that reminded one of an animal backed into a corner, afraid.

  Perhaps the one who entered the room saw and understood both the unhappiness and the fear. Perhaps she also saw the child’s pathetic vulnerability quickly cloaked with a pretense at dignity that was as pitiful as it was false. At any rate, Sister Bernadine’s voice, when she spoke, held a tinge of compassion along with the usual authority.

  “Come now, Kerry, this is no way to go downstairs and greet your aunt, Mrs. Sebastian Maxwell, who’s come to get you, and on such short notice.”

  Sister Bernadine was aware that she had emphasized the name of the guest who was even now alighting from the carriage, and a slight flush tinged her face. To think that she would be impressed by the high and mighty! Or perhaps it was the wealth associated with the Maxwell name. And who could blame her, constantly aware as she was of the needs of The Beneficent Sisters of Charity, the order to which she belonged, religiously devoted to the care of the poor. What was it the proverb said? “He that hath mercy on the poor, happy is he.” Sister Bernadine, face-to-face with another example of that poverty, supposed she should be the happiest of persons. Instead, her heart ached for the overwhelming needs all around her and this small girl in particular, and she grieved over the little she could do about any of it. Still, her reaction to the wealth of the Maxwells was a worldly attitude and quite shamed her.

  The child, huddled on the unmade bed with her mismatched and threadbare clothing askew and her hair tumbled, either did not know or did not care about the wealth and the prestige of her kin, and she looked painfully lost and alone. So alone. Poor, wee mite! She deserved some tender, loving care. Would the esteemed Mrs. Sebastian Maxwell provide it? Certainly the well-to-do woman was well able to lavish comfort and relief wherever she deemed it fitting, but on one small, inconspicuous mortal? Time would tell.

  And was the child inconspicuous, after all? Hadn’t she, more than once in the last few days, rattled Sister Bernadine herself, as well as every Sister who came in contact with her, and by the very Word of God to which they were committed? If Sister Bernadine were a betting woman, she would have laid odds on Kerry Ferne being a power unto herself in most any situation that life (and Mrs. Sebastian Maxwell) might bring her way.

  Now, in accordance with what Sister Bernadine already knew about her, Kerry summoned her considerable courage once again. Though her voice quavered, she looked up at the Sister bending over her and spoke clearly.

  “She’s come? My Aunt Charlotte’s come?”

  “Sure, and did you think she wouldn’t?” Sister’s tone was brisk, perhaps to forestall any repetition of the one and only demonstration of grief Kerry had allowed herself. What a heartrending scene it had been when the child was led—herded—from her father’s graveside. It would be best, Sister thought, if she could be brought to accept the finality of her loss, best that she adjust to her new status quickly—that of niece of one of the most affluent and influential women in the province of Ontario. To the aunt’s credit, she had promptly responded to the wire informing her of her brother’s death, delaying her arrival only until the funeral was over and her brother’s mortal remains were committed to the earth. Why the delay, no one knew.

  Now her carriage was at the door; surely it was a good sign for the future of the child.

  “Come, rise and shine. Get your hair brushed and your face washed,” Sister said crisply. But her hands were gentle as she pulled aside the bedding the small fist clutched so defensively—and so inadequately—against what must seem to be a strange and hostile world.

  That Kerry did indeed regard it as hostile had been revealed by her words when she was informed that her aunt had been contacted, words that a studied theologian might have come up with, words of a remote Scripture. But what a Scripture! Hearing her aunt’s name, the child had quoted darkly, “A man’s foes are those of his own household.”

  Remembering the incident, Sister Bernadine found herself, again, startled and even dismayed by the strange, even dire, words. Where would the child have learned such a bitter attitude toward her father’s sister? Was it that Avery Ferne, scholarly gentleman though he was, had been on bad terms with Charlotte Maxwell? But if Avery Ferne’s daughter had learned Bible verses of any sort under his tutelage, he was a different man indeed from the image the world saw—that of an intemperate rake with an unsavory reputation, addicted to gambling and with a habit of not paying his bills. But here was his small daughter, spouting Scripture like a vested pontiff.

  There was a story back of all this, and Sister Bernadine’s curiosity was aroused. But she quelled it in face of the need at hand—and just now that was Kerry’s rising from the bed and making herself presentable.

  But what a precocious child! There were additional times when she had inserted Scripture into conversations, some of it suitable enough, some of it with a most uncomfortable application.

  The night after the dreary burial, for instance, when Sister Claude was putting the drooping child to bed and attempting to comfort her with the assurance that her aunt would soon come for her, Kerry had shaken her head with its dark curls and quoted, “I will set him in safety from him that puffeth at him.”

  “I was speechless,” Sister Claude confessed later to Sister Bernadine and others. “Have any of you ever heard of such a passage from the Bible? I certainly haven’t. It was unsettling, to say the least. And what did she mean by it?”

  The quirking of a lip here and there—some of the Sisters had personal knowledge of the ready and sometimes guilt-provoking quotations—was quickly replaced by a more d
ecorous expression when Sister Claude frowned and paused.

  Seemly order restored, Sister Claude continued. “And then she looked up at me with her great, dark eyes and said, quite earnestly, ‘I believe that her can be used in place of him, don’t you? Else it wouldn’t be fair, would it? I mean, all the Scriptures seem to be given to men, but they must mean both men and women, don’t you think?’”

  Nodded heads affirmed that the child had touched on a surprisingly thoughtful truth.

  “I was considerably at sea in my thinking by this time,” Sister Claude continued, fully appreciative of her attentive audience. “I must have shown my confusion, because she got an anxious look on her face and said, ‘What I mean is, like where the Bible says that man is born to trouble, as the sparks fly upward. It’s been my experience’—mind you, this is coming from a nine-year-old—‘that women are born to trouble, too, so it must mean both men and women when it says man or him.’

  “Then she asked me, anxiously again, if I understood her. By this time I wasn’t certain of anything, and I guess she saw it; she’s a sensitive child. She went on, patiently—and I don’t mind telling you, I felt like a dunderhead—‘So what that Scripture means is that she, meaning me, will be safe from her, meaning Aunt Charlotte, that puffeth at me.’”

  “Puffeth?” someone repeated.

  “How very odd!” exclaimed another, while someone murmured “Dunderhead?”

  “It has an element of truth in it!” This was spoken warmly by Sister Vivian, a novitiate and the youngest in the listening group.

  When a dozen pairs of eyes were turned on her, Sister Vivian blushed, gathered her courage, and hurried on with her comment.

  “I mean about the Bible including woman in its references to man. I think it means mankind.”

  “Well, of course, Sister—”

  “But,” Sister Vivian hastened to add, humbly, “I don’t understand, not one bit, the puffeth part.”

  “That’s all right, dear,” someone said kindly, “I’m sure we’re all at sea about it.”

  While Sister Vivian subsided, and needles resumed their mending of the rips and tears and worn places of the castoff clothes being repaired for the poor of the city, someone asked Sister Claude, “Well, what did you say to the child after all this?”

  Sister Claude looked around at the expectant faces and took a new lease on the narrative.

  “Well, quite naturally I think, I asked, ‘Puffeth? What do you mean, puffeth?’ It seemed reasonable of me to ask, since she was speaking in riddles, and even though I felt it put her in the place of teacher and me of learner, still—”

  Sister Claude was sometimes inclined toward garrulousness. This was known by all and usually borne with long-suffering, but now someone brought her quickly back to the matter at hand.

  “Yes, yes, Sister, it was indeed a reasonable reaction on your part. I’m sure I might have thought the same thing in the circumstances. But then what?”

  “Well,” Sister Claude said, “she gave me more of that same verse, which was, ‘The Lord will rise for the oppression of the poor and the sighing of the needy.’ Imagine my reaction by this time, if you can. It was the strangest conversation I’ve almost ever had. Even stranger than when that delivery man asked me if any of us had ever considered—”

  “Yes, yes, Sister, we all remember, and how splendidly you answered him. And then what did she say?”

  “She said,” Sister Claude mimicked warningly, “‘And Sister, you better watch out when the Lord rises!’”

  Numerous gasps were heard as needles paused, heads were shaken, and voices raised in perplexity, dismay, or amazement.

  This child! Didn’t she beat all!

  “When I asked her—rather crossly, I’m afraid, for I was quite put out by this time—if she also memorized Scripture references, she said ‘Psalm 12, verse 5’ quick as a wink.”

  “Psalm 12 . . . hmmm,” several voices repeated as the information was stored away for possible confirmation or further study.

  Sister Evangeline, who had unpacked the child’s meager belongings, spoke next. “She has a Bible. King James, of course—they’re Protestants—and it’s old and dilapidated, much used by somebody. The name Esther Morley is written on the flyleaf. Does anyone here know if that was her mother, and if so, what happened to her? Dead, I suppose, or we wouldn’t be searching out this obscure aunt.”

  “Not obscure, Sister! Certainly not obscure,” Sister Bernadine corrected. “Not by any stretch of the imagination. Definitely not obscure. No one can belong to the Maxwell family, particularly the Sebastian Maxwell family, and be obscure. I thought everyone knew that.”

  Sister Evangeline could have pointed out that she had chosen a life of retreat and self-denial and that she didn’t engage her faculties, as a rule, in worldly matters, but she was too sweet-tempered to do so. But for one wild moment, until she drew rein on her emotions, she almost blurted out, much as the child herself might have, Not minding high things, but consenting to the humble! Immediate contrition for such retaliatory thoughts kept her on her knees scrubbing the steps most of the afternoon.

  Sister Bernadine was placidly continuing, “Yes, the mother of the child is indeed deceased. Esther Morley—now there’s an obscure name for you. Being married to that rapscallion didn’t elevate her reputation any, I’m sorry to say.”

  “He wasn’t always so dissolute—Avery Ferne, I mean,” someone supplied. “It’s possible that his wife’s death marked a turning point—a downward turning point. It wouldn’t be easy to be left alone with the care of a small child.”

  “It happens all the time,” Sister Bernadine responded, “and it doesn’t turn men into ne’er-do-wells. It’s fortunate indeed, for little Kerry’s sake, that the landlady had knowledge of the Maxwell connection, or the child might have ended up on the street among the hordes of children tossed aside to survive or perish as they will. Goodness knows we do our best to rescue them. Or do we? Sometimes I wonder if we are selfless enough . . .”

  “Well, the Maxwells are known for their charitable works. Kerry Ferne has fallen on her feet, I’d say.”

  “Lucky child!”

  “Fortunate child, fortunate and blessed.” Sister Bernadine folded her mending and slipped away to other tasks, as did her companions, several of them in search of a Bible, only to find the Douay version silent on the subject of puffing.

  When the child was presentable—washed and combed and straightened—still there was a delay in meeting the important guest. Sister Bernadine thought it wise to collect her charge’s possessions and take them down at the same time she presented the child. She couldn’t imagine that Mrs. Sebastian Maxwell would spend valuable time in the small receiving room while her niece’s baggage was being assembled—especially these particular ragtag items—and be happy about it.

  She was right. When at last Sister Bernadine entered the room, with Kerry lagging behind, it was to find Charlotte Maxwell tight-lipped. The reason was plain: Sister Vivian was fumbling, scarlet-faced, at the task of mopping tea from the woman’s skirt, which was the handsomest mourning costume imaginable, clearly expensive, made of silk moire, and fittingly black in color.

  “You may go, Sister,” Sister Bernadine said quietly, and Sister Vivian, with another anguished glance at the guest’s stony eyes and flared nostrils—which seemed remarkably at home in the long, handsome face—made her escape, an empty cup tipping in her shaking hand.

  Shepherding the small girl forward, Sister Bernadine introduced herself to the woman seated before her, adding, “And this, of course,” indicating the child, “is Kerry,” and lest there be any question about the woman’s responsibility, “the daughter of Avery Ferne, your brother.”

  With two fingers of one be-ringed hand Charlotte Maxwell held the damaged skirt away from her knee; with the other she blotted the wet spot with a serviette. Long moments passed before she turned her attention to the waiting pair. A mere dip of the flowered, winged, gathered lace and
straw creation that seemed to reign supreme on the iron-gray head was the only acknowledgment she accorded Sister. Her gaze was fixed on the small face at Sister Bernadine’s elbow.

  “So you are Kerry.”

  “I’m Keren,” the child said, and only Sister caught the attempt at bravery in the two words. But Kerry was not through. “Spelled with two e’s. K-e-r-e-n.”

  The sentence hung in the air between them like a protective shield on a field of battle.

  To the astonished Sister, it seemed that the child was making a startling effort to keep her identity from being lost in that of the woman, doing it the only way she knew and doing it instinctively. Sister had a momentary vision of a swimmer clinging to a capsized boat, desperately resisting the tug of the current. She clasped with a firm grip the small hand that had somehow made its way into hers.

  “K-e, K-a,” the aunt said briskly. “What could it possibly matter? It sounds the same no matter how it’s spelled. It has a foreign ring to it,” she continued quenchingly, “that certainly isn’t Scottish.” The Ferne family, into which Charlotte had been born, was Scotch through and through, and though brother Avery had not graced the name, still it should have its honorable recognition, especially by this upstart child, or so it seemed to be implied from the speaker’s tone. Keren with an e indeed! Charlotte Maxwell hoped that the annoying e would not pop into her mind every time she spoke the name.

  Kerry was doggedly pursuing the subject. “It’s from the Bible, you see. Job had seven sons and three daughters—that was after the first set of seven and three died when a great wind came from the wilderness and smote the four corners of the house where they were eating and drinking.” Kerry finished the sentence in one breath.

  “I always thought it was amazing that the number should be the same the second time around. Don’t you, Aunt? Only God could do that, don’t you think? He wanted Job to have exactly seven sons and three daughters, I guess. I heard that the number seven is supposed to be lucky. It wasn’t lucky for Job though, was it?”

  Kerry finally paused, looking at her aunt, who was opening and closing her mouth in a most surprising way. After a gasp or two, Mrs. Maxwell prepared to give some sort of answer to this conversation, which had gotten so quickly out of hand.