James flipped through the soggy pages. There were hundreds of certificates within the satchel, but not all of them bore the P&GF name. Some were for other railroads, obscure lines James had never heard of. He thought little of it at first. His father was, after all, brokering the creation of several railroads for a variety of investors. But behind these were other papers, deeds to lands in the western territories. It didn’t make sense.
Carefully, he blotted the wet pages and waved them back and forth in order to dry them. In a little over two hours he would be faced with making an excuse for why valuable railroad stocks and land deeds were ruined, and he didn’t relish the idea of giving up without a fight.
Checking inside the satchel for any remaining certificates, James found a folded piece of paper and opened it. It was a letter from his uncle to his father, and the words on the page made his blood run cold.
Leland,
I believe you will find these of authentic quality. I’ve gone over them in
detail and find no flaw to prove them as other than the real article.
Ever your brother,
Samuel
James reread the brief missive. Of course they were authentic certificates. Why shouldn’t they be? His father was, after all, vice-president on the board of the P&GF. He had created the design of the stock certificates, and he alone had been responsible for their issue.
He folded the paper and his mind dredged up the concerns of Carolina Adams. No, Carolina St. John, he reminded himself. She had been concerned that something was amiss. What was it she had said? For the love of all that was right, James couldn’t bring to mind her exact words.
He shoved the still-damp papers back into the satchel but placed the note from his uncle into his vest pocket. Something was wrong, and now he realized how astute Carolina must have been to see this from nothing more than letters and reports given her by his father.
“Carolina.”
Even breathing her name was painful. It reminded him of his own foolishness. It reminded him of the woman he loved. The woman he would always love. How could he have left her in Baltimore on such bad terms? Better that he would have swallowed his pride and at least apologized, even if he couldn’t bring himself to do as Annabelle suggested and declare his feelings.
She was married, he reminded himself, and to make open declarations of love to a married woman was akin to dishonoring her with an adulterous affair. He could never ruin her reputation by making indiscreet declarations. After all, who knew what servant might overhear him and in turn share this knowledge with others?
He sighed. He’d done his best to learn more of Blake St. John, but everyone who would speak to him of the man always said the same thing. He keeps to himself. He is long absent from Baltimore on various businesses that have made him enormously wealthy.
Long absent, he thought. Was that truly what Carolina wanted? A husband who was never around to hinder her in her studies and interests? Perhaps she had married St. John in order to have enough wealth to force her hand upon the world. But no, he reasoned with a shake of his head, Carolina was not like that.
He sighed long and heavy, wishing with all of his heart that he might be able to turn back the hands of time. He was filled with regrets so consuming, his only thought was of how he might avoid feeling anything for anyone ever again.
Then, as if to offer a painful reminder of the present, the satchel fell from the seat to the floor when the train passed over a particularly twisted portion of line. Reaching down, he picked up the satchel and held it against his damp coat. How could he ever learn the truth of this situation without further alienating his father? And how could he bring up such a matter when his mother lay gravely ill?
The miles rattled by with his traveling car companions sharing hearty laughter, sordid stories, and of course, the ever present spitting of tobacco. But they might well have been completely absent from the car. James scarcely heard or saw them, for his mind was overwhelmed with his father’s business dealings, while his heart was consumed with one dark-eyed young woman who resided in the house of Blake St. John. Coming to terms with either matter would take a great deal more patience and faith than he knew himself capable of.
He let his head drop into his hands. Not since those days following Phineas’s death had he felt so helpless. So utterly defeated. He vaguely smelled the odor of whiskey as a group of men in the back of the car were pouring drinks. James well knew he’d find no answers there, but for a brief moment he was tempted to find at least escape. Then he lifted his head and, for an odd reason, was not at all surprised by what—or whom—he saw.
“James, is that you?” Ben Latrobe was entering the car.
“Hello, Ben,” James said in an incredibly casual tone.
“Are you all right?” Latrobe slipped into the seat next to James.
“So, what brings you out on the evening train?” James felt instinctively it was more than coincidence that Ben had appeared when he did, yet still James was reluctant to bare his heart.
“I’ve a meeting with investors in the morning. And you?”
“My mother is ill.”
“I am so sorry, James. It must be bad for you to take on so.”
James nodded. “But not more than I could bear—if it were only that.” He looked at Ben with wasted eyes, then shrugged. “What am I saying? How do I know what I can bear? No . . . I don’t feel as if I have the strength to bear anything . . . anymore.”
“Go on, James. Maybe it will help for you to talk about it.”
“You believe in fate, don’t you, Ben?”
“I believe God’s direction in all things.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. Well, I think God directed you to be here right now. But even knowing that, it isn’t easy . . .”
“No, of course not. When is life ever truly easy?”
“You would know that as well as anyone, wouldn’t you, Ben?”
“I had a son die in his infancy, after watching him suffer for two months. Then, not long after that, I saw my work literally crumble before my eyes.”
“I heard it mentioned that you were also quite ill for a time.”
“I suffered excruciating headaches and heart flutters. I sought all manner of medicines and treatments. I finally found some medicine that helped, but only one thing helped the awful sense of failure that had probably caused the headaches in the first place.”
“Your faith, right?”
Ben smiled. “Yes . . .”
“Tell me about it, Ben.”
For the next hour the two men talked—as they had talked many times before, but also in a far different way, for this time James actually listened with his heart, not just his mind and his good intentions. He really heard and understood how a man’s strength was so completely paltry next to God’s weakness. He saw how foolish it was to carry burdens alone—how impossible! He saw how the true measure of a man was not in some frivolous outward show of strength, but rather in having the ability to admit one’s need, then take steps to seek the One who would meet that need.
“Ben,” James finally said, “I have reached a place in my life where I just can’t make it alone. I am so very tired of being alone. And I know what I must confront in Washington. I
can’t
do it alone.”
“And you need not, James.”
“Would God truly stand with me—after all these years I have so ignored Him?”
“You know the answer to that, don’t you, James?”
“Yes . . . but it seems almost too easy.”
“The easiest—and the hardest—thing you will ever do is to let God take up your burdens. I suppose it is especially difficult for men.”
“That must be why He has had to bring me to a place where I cannot bear taking another step alone.”
“But that is truly how you feel?”
“Oh yes, Ben!”
“Then why don’t you pray right now for God to intercede in your life?”
“Here . . . ? On the train?” Then James grinned. What better place? How very natural it would feel talking to God with the sound of the chugging locomotive in his ears and the feel of the vibration of metal wheels against the track beneath him.
The Baldwin house was silent as James entered from a light drizzle and deposited his wet hat and coat on a nearby chair. Ollie, the new housekeeper, took up the wet articles and informed James that his father was not yet home. James felt a small amount of relief. It was almost a reprieve. If only he could avoid ever having to deal with his suspicions.
The satchel, which James had come to despise these last few hours, felt oddly lighter, yet he still gripped it with slightly trembling hands. He felt confident in what he must do, but still fearful and nervous. He remembered what Annabelle had once told him about taking one step at a time. That’s what he must do now. Trusting God was still very new to him, and he supposed even God would understand his moments of wavering. At least Ben had said that would be so.
He tossed the satchel aside, taking the opportunity to see his mother before dealing with his father. Climbing the stairs, James felt a sense of foreboding. Up until now, he’d allowed other thoughts to consume his worries regarding his mother’s illness. Now he had to face facts. His mother was very ill—maybe even dying. Suddenly railroad swindles and such seemed most unimportant.
He opened the door after knocking very lightly and found a stranger sitting beside his mother’s bed.
The woman looked up and asked, “And who might you be?”
“I’m James Baldwin,” he said, his gaze leaving the woman’s scrutiny to behold his mother’s pale face. “I’m her son.”
“Ah yes. They told me you’d be making an appearance.”
James grimaced. She said the words as though he were some sort of circus novelty. “And you are?”
“I’m Mrs. Schultz. Your father hired me to sit with Mrs. Baldwin.”
“I see.” James moved forward and took the empty chair at his mother’s bedside. “How is she?”
The gray-haired woman frowned. “I’m afraid she’s very weak.”
“Is she awake? I mean, has she regained consciousness?”
“From time to time. Mostly she sleeps. The doctor declared it the best thing for her.”
James took his mother’s hand and lifted it to his lips. Placing a tender kiss on her cold fingers, he held on to her, reluctant to let go.
“Is everything being done?” James questioned.
“Everything humanly possible. The rest is up to God.”
The door opened and Ollie entered. “Master James, Master Baldwin has returned and is waiting for you in the study.”
James nodded and tenderly kissed his mother’s hand once more before leaving her side. He glanced back at the door, feeling guilty for having ever left her—wishing he could stay at her side. But he would return as soon as he spoke to his father—that is, if the man didn’t force him from the house.
He walked slowly back downstairs, wondering if he possessed the strength to deal with his father. Had he been the cause of their demise? And if so, how could he right the wrongs of his past?
Spotting the rain-soaked satchel, James took it up and drew a deep breath. He stepped up to the door of his father’s study and, without thinking, opened the door before knocking.
“Hello, Father.”
“What in the world has gotten into you, boy? You know better than to enter this room without knocking.”
It was just like old times. No friendly greeting, just a reprimand. James had hoped for more, and the disappointment stirred his old defensive responses.
“Why is that, Father?” James tossed the satchel across the desk. “Because someone might see you with these?” Leland paled, and James suddenly knew the truth of the matter.
“Why?” James asked. “That’s all I want to know.”
“I haven’t any idea what you mean,” Leland said, scrambling to remove the satchel before it dampened everything under it. “You rudely burst into my office, making insinuating noises, then demand me to answer to you.” Leland carefully placed the satchel on the floor beside him and coughed loudly in order to draw his breath.
“You needn’t play this game with me anymore, Father.” Wearily James took a seat in the leather chair opposite his father’s desk. “I know those certificates are less than authentic. What I want to know is why?”
Leland stood indignantly, bringing both fists down on the desk. “Boy, I sent for you because your mother may well be dying. While she wastes away upstairs you would stand here and interrogate me for imagined wrongs.”
“I’ve just come from my mother’s bed. I know she is ill. She has been ill, according to your brief explanation, for some time.” James could not keep the bitterness from invading his voice. “You might at least have seen fit to contact me sooner. You might have given me that much.”
“I sent for you when I felt there was nothing left to be done.” Leland seemed to relax, and James knew it was because he thought he’d successfully diverted the conversation. “Your actions indicated to me that you cared no more than that.”
“That is not fair, Father. You know why I have stayed away. I never wished to hurt Mother.”
“But that was the result.”
“For which I am deeply ashamed. And I only pray I can make that right with Mother. But what about you, Father? Can you right your wrongs so easily?”
“You make no sense, James.” Leland sat down hard and pulled out a handkerchief to dab around his mouth. His gaze darted about the room before settling on the papers in front of him. “These are ruined,” he said angrily. “A whole morning’s work that I shall have to rewrite.”
“The stock certificates and deeds are ruined as well,” James offered softly.
“What!” Leland struggled to retrieve the satchel and opened it with great concern. “What happened to these?”
“They fell into a puddle of water. The satchel opened and the contents spilled out, which is why I discovered something is amiss.”
Leland shook his head. “I merely had Samuel draw up the certificates. He knows a good printer—”
“Stop it!” James leaned forward, pulling his uncle’s note from his vest pocket. “This letter clarifies things quite nicely.”
“You have no right to read letters that were not intended for you.”