Her Patchwork Family. Lyn Cote

and all the money?” Vista glanced over her shoulder.

      “Yes, she came to Pennsylvania and we worked together coordinating movement on the Underground Railroad. She was a wonderful woman. And she was certain that many children would be left orphaned by this dreadful war.”

      “And just generally, too?”

      Felicity nodded, blinking her eyes to keep them open. “Will thee stay with me and help?”

      Vista gave her a sidelong glance. “I got no plans to leave…yet.”

      So Vista was sizing her up, too. Felicity stretched her tight neck and sighed.

      “I got a room ready for you upstairs, miss. Why don’t you go on up and rest?”

      Felicity sighed again—a habit she must overcome. “No, first I must walk back into town and speak to Mrs. Barney’s lawyer.”

      Her hands in the wash basin, Vista frowned. “Well, first of all, if you going into town, you’re not walking. The groom will hitch up the gig for you. But what do you need to talk to the lawyer about?”

      “Why mustn’t I walk into town?” Felicity asked, not answering the housekeeper’s question.

      “Mrs. Barney had a certain standing here. I know she wouldn’t want you to walk to town,” Vista replied firmly.

      Felicity tried to think of a polite answer to this. Yes, Mrs. Barney had been a lady of generous means. But Felicity didn’t ride where she could eaily walk. But here and now, she was just too tired to argue.

      “And the lawyer, Miss Felicity?” Vista asked again.

      Clearly there was no putting anything past this woman. “There’s a child who needs my help,” Felicity answered. “And I’m going to need a lawyer in order to give it to him.”

      That evening Ty paced his library, wishing he were deaf. After four years of listening to cannon fire and bombs bursting in air, he should be. Unfortunately, he could still hear well enough to suffer each evening’s ordeal. The rocking chair on the floor above him creaked in a steady but rapid rhythm. Every once in a while, Camie cried out as if someone had jabbed her with a needle.

      No one should have to rock a five-year-old girl to sleep. But if no one rocked her, Camie would stand by the door in her room and sob till she fell down with exhaustion. Then upon waking in the night as she always did, she would scream as if someone were scalding her.

      Ty rubbed his face in time with the rocking chair. The sounds of the rapid rocking and Camie’s sudden cries of terror shredded his nerves into quivering strings. He halted by the cold hearth and rested his head on the smooth, cool mantel. When would this nightly torture end? Dear God, help my little daughter, help us.

      Finally, the rocking above slowed and quieted, then ceased, along with the outcries. Ty’s tension eased. He slumped into the wing chair by the fireplace. His mother’s light footsteps padded down the stairs. As always, she paused at the doorway to wish him good-night.

      Tonight, however, she came in and sat down across from him. His mother, Louise Pierce Hawkins, perched on the tapestry seat, a small canary of a woman with silver strands liberally mixed into her faded blond hair. Her kind face showed her distress.

      His heart beat faster. “Did something happen?” Something worse than usual?

      She gazed at him. “Nothing out of the ordinary, unfortunately.” She locked her hands together. “I’m becoming more and more concerned about our Camie.”

      Ty chewed his upper lip and frowned. He wanted to ask if she thought Camie needed…no, he didn’t want to know.

      “I don’t think she’s mentally unbalanced, son,” she said, answering his unspoken question. “But nothing I do appears to help her get past her panic. In fact, I don’t know why she has such fear or what exactly she is afraid of.” She shook her head. “She fights sleep as if it were death itself.”

      Her face twisted with concern. “Whenever she feels herself slipping into sleep, she cries out to wake herself and hold…something at bay. I wish I knew what it was.”

      Ty could think of nothing to say, nothing that could end this nightly struggle. Guilt weighed on him. He hadn’t been able to tell his mother the part he may have unwittingly played in making his daughter’s night terrors worse.

      Louise rested her head in her hand. “I confess I’m at my wits’ end. God must send us help, an answer, someone who knows what to do.”

      His mother’s strained, defeated tone alarmed him. “I could hire someone to care for her. This is too much for you—”

      “No.” His mother’s tone was firm, implacable. “Camie is a sweet, biddable child all day.” She looked to the cold hearth as if seeking warmth, encouragement there. “It’s just the falling asleep. She can’t face the night.”

      His mother left out the other worrisome problem, which was that Camie would not look at him. Or suffer him to come near her. He clenched his jaw and then exhaled. “Mother, I appreciate all you do for Camie. Maybe we should do what Mrs. Crandall—”

      Louise hissed with disapproval. “Ty, you know my opinion of that woman.” She jerked her head as if warning someone away. “I try to be charitable, but I think much of the cause of this worrying behavior lies at her doorstep.” She pressed her lips together.

      Ty looked out into the night. The question of what to do hung unspoken and unanswered between them.

      That evening, Felicity stood at the kitchen window, looking out at the two children huddled together on her back porch like stray puppies. She had been tempted to overrule Vista and let the children come inside without cleaning up first. But Felicity hoped Vista would become a part of her work here, and she didn’t want to do anything that might upset the housekeeper.

      By staying here and keeping the house safe and cared for after Mrs. Barney’s death, Vista had proven herself to be honest and hardworking. It would be hard for a stranger to town like Felicity to replace Vista. Trust took time to forge.

      And Vista was right. Basic cleanliness must be established for the benefit of all the children who would come here to live. Cleanliness was healthy. A home with children—Felicity hoped to have many children here in the future—must be a house with firm, sensible rules.

      Felicity wiped the perspiration on her forehead with the back of her hand. It was a warm, humid night. Sleeping outside was probably more comfortable than sleeping inside. Still, homeless children sleeping on her porch grieved Felicity, causing a gnawing ache deep within.

      Donnie snorted in his sleep and opened one eye. She realized he could see her through the window because he wiggled one of his little fingers as if waving to her. The boy, barely more than a toddler, hadn’t spoken a word to anyone all day. Though nearly moved to tears, she grinned and wiggled her little finger back at him. The child closed his eyes and fell back to sleep.

      Felicity sighed. And then reminded herself that she must stop this new habit. Sighing sounded lonely and a bit sad, pensive even. She caught herself just before she did it again.

      Dear Father, please bring me children, the lost ones, the ones that the evil lion Satan wishes to devour. Give me strength and wisdom to carry out the work Thee has given me. I will depend on Thy promise from Psalm 37. I will trust in Thee and do good.

      Felicity turned from the window to go upstairs before she remembered one more request.

      And Father, please give me the courage I will need in court tomorrow so that I may right the wrong committed against a child—a wrong that has been committed in my name.

      Chapter Two

      The next morning after breakfast with Katy and Donnie on the back porch, Felicity stood in the kitchen. The heat and the humidity were already growing uncomfortable. How could the calendar say September when it felt like July?

      While