Buckeye Dreams (52 page)

The car left the area around the university and soon approached the rail yards. The road sloped downward and entered a short tunnel. Many trains had to cross High Street to get to Union Station, making the tunnel a necessary evil. The filth created by the streetcar horses made the odor within quite strong, even for Anne’s farm-raised nose. She raised a handkerchief to her face, and she and the other passengers took a great gulp of fresh air when the car resurfaced.

She kept track of the streets as they rolled by so she wouldn’t miss her stop. Spring Street, Long Street, Gay Street, and then finally, Broad Street. Broad and High bustled with activity, even on a Saturday. She got off and stood on the northwest corner of the intersection, admiring the tall three-and five-story buildings. Her favorite was a castle-like building directly across Broad Street. It was the Huntington Bank, where her uncle did business. He said Mr. Huntington, the owner, was one of the friendliest men who ever lived. She was smiling over what Uncle Daniel had told her about the banker greeting customers as he sat whittling on the steps of his bank, when the Broad Street streetcar stopped in front of her. Sharply reminded of her errand, the smile slipped away, and she got on, once again taking a seat near the back.

She carefully adjusted her bonnet, making sure it hid her face as much as possible, and wrapped her cloak closer. She was glad they were so worn that no one would wonder too much that they were out of fashion. Most would merely assume they were all she had to wear to keep out the chill.

Within fifteen minutes, a wide, well-kept lawn came into view. The streetcar stopped, and she alighted with shaky hands. Rubbery legs took her up a long path to an imposing Gothic brick building. It had a mansard roof with two large square towers on both ends. An arched cupola rose from the center. Many simpler brick buildings spread out behind it on either side. She’d heard it was one of the better institutions; that its founder had been good friends of social reformer Dorothea Dix, and its patients were well treated. But that hardly made her visit to the Columbus Asylum for the Insane pleasant.

As Anne stepped through the doors, the visitors’ attendant greeted her.

“Good morning, miss,” the young man said. “I see you’ve come for another visit.”

“If he’s up to it,” Anne said quietly.

“Why don’t you sign in, and we’ll find out.”

Anne did as she was asked, taking care to sign in under the name of Wells, and sat down on a bench to wait. Before long her name was called, and she was led to the institution’s conservatory. She’d been told on her visit last month that it was a recent addition to the asylum. A donor had left a certain sum of money with the wish that it be used for the benefit of the patients. Plants from all around the country had been purchased, some even donated by the National Conservatory in Washington.

But their lush beauty was lost on Anne as she was led to a wrought-iron bench where a man sat, stone-faced, with hair as ginger red as her own. He was comfortably dressed and his hair and beard neatly trimmed. A large male attendant stood just a few feet away, and she nodded to him as she knelt down in front of the man. She swallowed in an effort to free the words that were sticking in her throat.

“Hello, Pa. I’m back to see you.”

He said nothing. His brown eyes stared right through her, just as they had before. According to his doctor, whom Anne spoke with on her first visit, he hadn’t always been completely motionless. In the years following the incident that led the Kirbys to adopt her, he had spoken wildly and at times had to be restrained. But over the last few months, he had slipped into this state. His attendant could move him in any position, and he remained that way. He either couldn’t or wouldn’t speak. Neither could he walk. His attendant had to carry him. Anne slowly sat next to him on the bench. She removed her bonnet and reached out to take one of his hands, which rested on his knees. It was cold and waxy, and his fingers refused to curl around hers.

She sat with him for some time, looking at him occasionally, willing him to return her gaze. He never did. Her emotions swung erratically, and she couldn’t figure out which to lock on to—anger at what he had done or pity over what had happened to him. A great surge of shame and grief welled up inside her, threatening to burst forth like a flash flood during a spring thunderstorm. She managed to swallow most of it, but a stray tear escaped and splashed onto her free hand. Someone knelt at her feet and offered her a handkerchief. She looked up to find herself gazing into green eyes that were as filled with compassion as much as her own were filled with tears.

Anne took the handkerchief and used it to cover her face. She heard her father’s attendant move forward.

“I should take him back to his room now, Miss Wells,” he said.

She felt her father’s hand slip from hers as his attendant picked him up to take him back to his room. As the footsteps faded away, Mr. Ward took the place beside her. He didn’t speak, but Anne could feel the questions he wanted to ask. Who was that man? Why was she here? Why had the attendant called her Miss Wells? She took a shaky breath.

“That man’s name is Robert Wells. He’s my father. He lost his senses fighting the war … that’s why the Kirbys adopted me. They never told me.” She tried to go on, but months of pent-up emotion suddenly spilled out and she found herself leaning against Mr. Ward’s shoulder sobbing uncontrollably. She was dimly aware of his arm coming around her shoulders and pulling her close.

How long they sat there that way she didn’t know. Her tears lessened, and he pulled her to her feet. He handed her the bonnet, and with wooden fingers, she put it on. He took her gently by the elbow and walked her out to the streetcar. Before she knew it, they were home. Mr. Ward walked her up to the door, and she looked at him, apprehensively. What would he do now? Would he tell her uncle where she’d been?

“Get some rest, Miss Kirby,” he said. “We’ll talk later.”

She went up to her room and lay down on her bed, but rest was the last thing on her mind. Just what was Peter Ward planning to do?

Peter ran his hand down Scioto’s leg. It still looked sound, and he smiled at the professor. “He’s fine. It’s healed nicely.”

The professor smiled. “Good, then I must have been imagining things. I swore he started to limp a little.”

They were outside the stable, the professor having just returned. Miss Kirby had joined them and looked on. Peter handed the bridle to her.

“Would you mind walking him around for me? I want to be sure he’s sound.”

He saw the questioning look in her eyes but didn’t react to it. Pursing her lips, she took the reins from him and did as he’d asked. Peter watched them both as she walked Scioto back and forth. He’d hoped she would get some rest, but looking at her now, she still seemed troubled. When he had gone to the asylum today to visit Uncle Billy, he’d never dreamed he’d find her there. He was relieved that her problem was not what he’d originally imagined, but that didn’t make it any less delicate. It was clear she was shouldering this burden by herself. As much as he was trying to keep her at a distance, she clearly needed to talk to someone, a person and not a horse. A thought occurred to him just as the professor’s voice invaded his thoughts.

“Peter?”

He blinked. “Yes, sir?”

“I said he seems fine to me.”

“Yes, sir, he is.” He smiled apologetically as he took Scioto from Miss Kirby. “I’m sorry. I was a little lost in thought.”

“What about?”

“Your niece.” They both stared at him, and he quickly rephrased his answer. “I meant I was wondering if I might trouble your niece to help me with something.”

Miss Kirby arched an eyebrow at him then looked at her uncle. “What can I do for you, Mr. Ward?”

“As you know, I like to cook Scioto’s feed in the morning and evening. But that takes time. Would it be possible for you to cook it and bring it out to me?”

She pursed her lips. “I would if I could cook, Mr. Ward.”

The professor chuckled at Peter’s surprised look. “Sad to say, it’s true, in spite of my sister-in-law’s best efforts.”

“Well, I’m willing to give it my best effort.” Peter smiled at Miss Kirby’s doubtful look. “It’s not hard, I promise. I’ll be happy to show you after dinner if, of course, this is agreeable to you, Dr. Kirby.”

“I don’t see the harm in it.” The professor smiled at his niece, who still seemed hesitant. “Go on and try. It can’t hurt.”

A few hours later, the two of them stood over the stove in Mrs. Werner’s sparkling kitchen. Dr. Kirby, wishing them well, went into the library to grade papers. Miss Kirby looked around her with pursed lips. “I hope you’re prepared to scrub this place down once we’re finished, Mr. Ward.”

Peter gave her a droll look and peeked into his worn cook pot. “We’re just boiling water right now, Miss Kirby.”

She shook her head. “You haven’t seen me in action.”

“Here,” he said, bringing forth a bucket of oats. “Put about two scoops of this into the water.” She did so, and he handed her a flat wooden paddle. “Keep stirring it so it won’t scorch.”

“Is this all we put in?”

“We need to add equal parts of wheat bran and salt, but not quite yet.”

While she did spill some of the bran and the result was slightly scorched, Scioto didn’t seem to notice. He munched away unconcerned, and a small smile graced Miss Kirby’s face.

“You seem to be feeling better now.”

The smile disappeared, and he instantly regretted his words. Her face was so much more beautiful when she smiled. “I hope we can forget about what happened earlier today, Mr. Ward. Thank you for your kindness in seeing me home, but it’s really no longer your concern.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miss Kirby.”

“Why?” Her brown eyes grew dark.

“No one should have to carry such a burden alone.”

“I’m not carrying it alone,” she retorted. She reached out and stroked Scioto’s neck.

“As much regard as I have for Scioto, he’s not going to answer you, and he’s not going to help you solve anything.”

“I don’t need him to solve anything. I just need him to listen.”

“That doesn’t seem to be working out very well.” He grasped her elbow, forcing her to face him. Her eyes were dark pools, glimmering in the lamplight. “It isn’t, is it?”

“No,” she whispered, and lowered her head against his chest.

Peter couldn’t help but allow himself to wrap his arms around her. When he had asked God to send her someone who could help her, he hadn’t imagined that He intended on sending him.
I don’t want to hurt her, Lord. I don’t trust myself not to
.

“
Then trust Me
.”

Steeling himself, he gently pulled her away and led her over to a small bench across from Scioto’s stall, near the harness room. He offered her his handkerchief. She took it with a small, humorless laugh.

“I still have your other one.”

“It’s all right. I have plenty.” He patiently waited for her to dry her face before speaking again. “Tell me about him.”

A
nne looked at him for a long moment. He returned her gaze, his eyes filled with the same compassion he’d shown her as she sat beside her father at the asylum. Where was the fear, the revulsion?
He doesn’t know all of it yet
. No, he didn’t know everything. He might understand her natural father losing his senses, but he’d never understand the rest. She’d just have to be careful.

“I only found out about him a few months ago,” she said. “The Kirbys had always told me I was adopted but never told me about him.”

“To protect you,” he stated.

Anne nodded.

“How did you find out?”

She shut her eyes against the memory. It had been a warm spring day, and Pa had sent her to find a letter from Uncle Daniel.

“Pa asked me to fetch a letter from the desk in the parlor. I thought I found it, and when I opened it to be certain, I found a letter from … the asylum.” The words she’d read still haunted her. “
Mr. Wells’s condition has not improved… . He still has no knowledge that you and your wife adopted his daughter, Anne
.” How she managed to find the right letter and give it to Pa with any measure of composure, she didn’t know. “The asylum sends yearly updates to Pa through my uncle. I found most of them.” Afterward, she’d slipped downstairs every night, piecing together the whole story.

“What about your natural mother? Did you find out what happened to her?”

Anne looked down, lest something in her expression tell him more than she wanted. “She died.”

“Have you been praying about this?”

“I did at first. But the more I prayed, the more I realized—” She stopped, acutely aware that she’d almost revealed too much.

“Anne?” At the sound of her uncle’s approach, relief seared through her, until she saw the expression on Mr. Ward’s face. “Please don’t tell him.”

“He should know.”

“No, please. He’ll tell my parents, and I don’t want them to get hurt.”

He hesitated then nodded reluctantly. “But you know you can’t keep this from them forever.”

“I know, and I won’t; I promise.” It was the truth. She’d always intended to tell her family, but only after she and her father were safely out West—when what he was and what he’d done couldn’t threaten their reputation any longer.