Love's First Bloom Read online

  She had no interest in any of the goods from the city that would soon appear in the various shops in the village, even if she had any coin to spend. She was only interested in one thing: news about her father’s trial, which had dominated the city newspapers that were usually delivered twice a week to the village.

  After ten days without any shipments arriving at all, every single copy of those newspapers would be scooped up as soon as they arrived. Even here, readers were obsessed with the scandalous, even licentious details of the life of Rosalie Peale and the controversial minister who was on trial for her murder.

  Hopeful that Mr. Garner would get copies of the newspapers at some point today, Ruth opened the door to the staircase, looked down at her apron and gown, and sighed. She’d had no idea that taking care of a young child would take such a toll on her clothing, and she sorely needed to launder the few clothes she had managed to bring with her.

  The steps were uncommonly steep, and after she picked up her skirts with one hand, she held tight to the railing with the other. She descended very, very slowly, and hoped that the time she had spent on her knees praying would help to stem the growing fear within her that her father would be wrongly convicted.

  Three

  Ruth opened the door at the bottom of the staircase and stepped into the storeroom. She took a deep breath of the warm, fragrant air, but ended up in a bit of a coughing fit. She remembered too late that unlike the pristine shop itself, the storeroom was a magnet for dust and disorder.

  The paned window next to the rear door was covered with grit and grime, which ten days of rain had failed to remove, allowing only dim light to enter the room. Baskets filled with dried flowers, roots, and herbs used as remedies or compounded into healing tonics lined a number of rickety shelves. Even the overhead beams were laden with drying bunches of healing herbs, and she crouched to avoid disturbing them.

  Since arriving here, Ruth had only helped Phanaby with housekeeping tasks upstairs, but as she neared the curtain that separated the storeroom from the shop itself, she made a mental note to offer to help Mr. Garner tidy up the storeroom as one way to repay him for his kindnesses, too.

  Once she reached the curtain in the doorway, she stopped and cocked her head. Relieved that she did not hear any voices, meaning Mr. Garner was not busy with a customer, she parted the curtain and peeked into the apothecary itself.

  Mr. Garner, however, was not there. She discovered him standing outside on a ladder, apparently so intent on washing the paned window next to the front door that he did not even see that she was waving to him to get his attention.

  Unlike his wife, Elias Garner was average in height, although his weight might be appropriate for a much larger man. The dull brown hair on top of his head was rather unremarkable, but the mustache he took such pains to groom was quite streaked with gray and red hair.

  She had come to know him as a gentle, quiet man, a man devoted to his God and his faith, as well as his wife and his customers. Elias was but a single example of the large network of believers her father had developed to help those fallen angels who sought to reclaim their faith. Humbled again by the generosity of the Garners, she swallowed hard. She moved closer to the window to capture Mr. Garner’s attention.

  When he finally smiled and waved back, he pointed to the one pane on the window that was still dirty and held up one finger to indicate he would be back inside as soon as he finished.

  Smiling a reply, she took advantage of this unusual opportunity to be in the apothecary by herself and looked around. Unlike the storeroom, the shop itself was a vision of order and cleanliness, the scent of the room more medicinal than herbal. Four substantial wooden shelves, separated in several places by vertical pieces of wood to create the look of bookcases that stood side by side, ran horizontally along the wall to her left. In front of the shelves, a counter widened as it reached the rear of the shop to create a workbench where several mortars and pestles of different sizes stood next to a small brown parcel.

  Instead of open baskets filled with herbs that lined the shelf in the storeroom, however, dozens of bottles and jars organized by color and shape and filled with sundry healing preparations sat on the top two shelves. The third shelf contained patent medicines, while the fourth and lowest shelf contained all sorts of gadgets and tools for preparing compounds. Graters in several different sizes nestled next to wooden and ceramic bowls and pitchers, as well as two rolls of brown paper and several balls of twine.

  Turning, Ruth noted that there was a narrow workbench, not much more than a ledge, on the wall directly behind the counter. When she noted the mirror hanging on the wall over that workbench, she walked over and gazed into it. When she looked beyond her own reflection, she had a full view of the shop and realized Mr. Garner must have placed the mirror there in order to keep an eye on his shop when he turned his back to work.

  Once her gaze settled back on her own reflection again, she quickly looked away and blinked hard. There was nothing she could do to add more height to her short stature, but she could ill-afford to lose any more weight without looking as gaunt as Phanaby. Helping to feed Lily at mealtimes, however, often meant that Ruth had little time to think about eating herself.

  Pressing her eyes closed, she massaged them with her fingertips and tried not to think about the circles under them that were nearly the same gray color. “Sleep. I need sleep,” she grumbled. She opened her eyes, removed the comb in her hair, and used it to smooth her hair back into place again without bothering to use the mirror. She had always worn her hair very simply, and she did not need a mirror to make sure she pulled the sides up into a comb at the top of her head, leaving the back to fall in waves to the middle of her back.

  She barely had the comb in place again when Mr. Garner opened the door and came back inside carrying a ladder with one hand and a bucket with the other. Grinning, he held up the bucket and waved his arm toward the sparkling window as he approached her. “One task done and done well, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would,” she agreed. “Mrs. Garner asked me to come downstairs—”

  “To remind me that dinner will soon be ready,” he said and set the ladder down to lean against the counter. When he tried to put the bucket down, he inadvertently hit the side rung on the ladder. Apparently panicked that the dirty water would hit her or perhaps the brown parcel sitting on the counter, he yanked the bucket back toward himself.

  Ruth managed to jump out of the way, but nearly all of the dirty water ended up soaking his canvas apron, as well as parts of his shirt and trousers, before the water puddled on the floor.

  Groaning, he shook his head and stepped out of the water pooling at his feet. “Now, that’s a fine mess I’ve made of myself and my shop. I hope I didn’t get any of this on you.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “That’s probably because you’re young and nimble enough to get out of harm’s way,” he said as he untied his apron and peeled it off himself. Frowning, he dropped it into the nowempty bucket. “I can’t very well go anywhere without changing into dry clothes first, and I can’t even do that until I mop up all this water.”

  “I can help,” Ruth said quickly. “I can mop up the water for you.”

  He sighed. “It’s not the water I’m concerned about. Mrs. Sloan, down at the general store, is especially upset with me because I didn’t remember yesterday to give her twice the remedy anyone else normally asks for, and I promised I’d have the extra in her hands before she sat down for dinner today.”

  “She always gets twice the normal amount? Why?”

  He chuckled. “Simply put, because she likes to have extra on hand, regardless of the cost.” He pointed to the brown parcel lying on the workbench. “Would you be a dear and take that parcel over to her for me?”

  Ruth moistened her lips. On the few times she had gone walking about the village, she had always been with one of the Garners or both. Reluctant to go alone, she hesitated. “I-I really shouldn’t leave right now.
Lily made a mess of herself again. I’m afraid she needs another bath and—”

  “Lily isn’t the only one who made a mess, now, is she? Don’t worry. As soon as I mop up this water, I’ll head right upstairs and tell Mrs. Garner that I needed you to run an errand for me. She won’t be very pleased that I’ll be dripping wet when I do, but I think I can safely promise that she won’t mind starting Lily’s bath.”

  When she caught her lower lip, he captured her gaze and held it. “The village is your home now. Sooner or later you’ll need to venture out on your own, without either Mrs. Garner or myself,” he said. “The people here have their faults, like we all do, but for the most part, they’re all good folks. Some of them might end up as friends while there are others you might want to avoid. Maybe it’s time you discovered which ones are which, without having one of us with you all the time to do that.”

  Ruth swallowed hard, caught between the advice he offered and the difficult reality of actually taking it. She was still uncomfortable with her adopted identity, and she missed the anonymity she could find in New York City. Here, the number of people who lived and worked in the village was so small, she could never hope to go anywhere at any time without being recognized. “I-I suppose I could, but—”

  “That’s the spirit,” he said and handed her the parcel. “While you’re there, you might as well get a couple of those lemon sticks Lily favors so much. And get something sweet for Mrs. Garner and yourself, too. Mrs. Sloan can just put it on my account.”

  Ruth held on to the parcel but looked down at her apron, which was badly stained and a bit crusted with the remnants from Lily’s breakfast as well as her dinner. “I’d have to change my apron first.”

  “Nonsense. Just toss it into the bucket with mine. Besides, if you don’t go now, I’m afraid you might be too late.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Too late?”

  He smiled. “Mrs. Sloan won’t have any trouble selling every one of those city newspapers that should have finally arrived today. Even folks here have gotten caught up with Reverend Livingstone’s trial. I was hoping to get copies of the newspapers while I was there. You must be as anxious as we are to find out if the good Lord has answered our prayers and Reverend Livingstone’s finally been found innocent of murdering that poor woman.”

  “Indeed I am,” Ruth agreed and slipped off her apron, as well as any hesitation she had about going to the general store alone.

  Ruth walked up Water Street and noted that the village was quiet as most folks gathered at home to share the midday meal together. She paused at the corner, where the small roadway intersected Main Street, to shake the mud from the hem of her skirts and grimaced. She had more to worry about than a few stained aprons and soiled gowns waiting to be laundered. Her mud-soaked slippers were probably beyond saving, her feet were numb, and the sun that warmed the top of her head only served to remind her that she had forgotten to wear a bonnet.

  Anxious at what she might learn from the newspapers, and nervous about being out and about all by herself, she glanced across the street. The stable to her left, where patrons of Burkalow’s Tavern and Inn kept their mounts, added a pungent smell to the air that nearly dominated the more fragrant dinner odors emanating from the inn itself.

  Tears welled unexpectedly, and she blinked them back as she carried the parcel to the general store. She did not know if anyone was taking meals to her father or providing him with fresh clothing while he was imprisoned, but she prayed that some of his supporters were seeing to his needs in her absence.

  Sloan’s General Store was two full squares away, directly opposite the bank, and she smiled when she saw there were no customers going in or out of either establishment. When she approached the front door to the general store, it opened so abruptly, she quickly took a step back and gripped the parcel she was carrying for fear she might drop it.

  She recognized the young man who nearly ran into her. On her first journey into the main of the village with Mrs. Garner, she had met Silas Simms. The young seaman worked on one of the packet boats, such as the Sheller, which routinely traveled between Toms River and New York City twice each week, carrying charcoal, lumber, and farm goods from the village and returning with all sorts of commercial products.

  Barely fifteen, with a long face pocked with scars, Silas was all arms and legs and had yet to learn how to control them, which made her wonder how he managed when he was at sea. “Oh, sorry, ma’am. Excuse me.” He rocked back on his heels, nearly tripping over his own two feet in the process.

  Blushing, he managed to untangle his feet and catch the stack of newspapers that slipped out from beneath his shirt as well. When he finally met her gaze, his blush deepened. “Dailies. They’re recent up to yesterday,” he explained, quickly shutting the door behind him and shoving the papers back under his shirt.

  He looked around, as if making sure no one else would hear him, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “That minister’s trial’s gettin’ real interestin’ now. The captain brought more newspapers for the general store today than usual, and I brought a few of my own. I’m hopin’ I can sell some down to the inn, but please don’t say nothin’ to Mrs. Sloan. I don’t think she’d favor me doin’ that, even if she’s bound to sell out her own papers,” he admitted.

  Ruth nodded, disappointed to learn that her father’s trial had yet to end. She stared at the bulge of newspapers hidden beneath his shirt. When her heart began to race, she shifted the parcel she had been carrying. “Are you just now delivering the newspapers to Mrs. Sloan?” she asked, if only to confirm her assumption that the newspapers for Mr. Garner were waiting for him inside the general store.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. He pulled several newspapers out from underneath his shirt and handed them to her. “You can have these. I got plenty more.”

  “No, thank you,” she said and offered them back to him. “I just wanted to make sure that Mr. Garner’s newspapers hadn’t been sold.”

  “No, you keep those, ma’am. They’re for you. They’re good readin’, too,” he said and leaned close as he lowered his voice yet again. “Seems like the good minister mighta murdered somebody else, too. Anyway, I’ll be back the end of the week with more newspapers. Maybe by then they’ll have found the other body.”

  “Wh-what other body?” she managed before her throat tightened with fear.

  “Accordin’ to those papers, none of the officials or reporters have been able to find his daughter since the trial started, so they decided he musta killed her, too. They’re lookin’ hard, but they say she’s got no family to take her in. One newspaper claimed she’s just hidin’ out somewhere. Not that I blame the poor woman. I’d hide, too, if that wicked minister was my father.”

  Four

  New York City

  After living a self-imposed, but well-deserved, exile for the past two years, Asher Tripp returned home prepared to confront his past and to ask for the opportunity to make amends and redeem his reputation.

  With his carpenter tools and travel bag at his feet, he stood under the eaves of a bookstore that would not open for several hours yet. The early morning flurry of activity across the street at the cellar office of the Galaxy was achingly familiar. Yet it inspired difficult memories of his very public, very humiliating failure—one that had put the newspaper itself at great risk of shutting its doors.

  Encouraged by the volume of the day’s daily newspapers that had been picked up for delivery to homes throughout the city, he also found the large number of boys carrying away newspapers to hawk on street corners very reassuring. Judging by the size of the papers themselves, which were half of what they used to be, he realized that the paper’s primary focus had completely changed in his absence from politics and commerce to crime and other more sensational topics that had greater appeal for the masses.

  Obviously, the newspaper he had abandoned was now thriving as one of the new daily newspapers that sold for a penny, a full nickel less than the larger newspapers that app
ealed to the city’s political and business elites. Tripp only hoped that this change would not have a negative impact on both his decision to return and his chance of success.

  He drew in a long breath and picked up his tools and travel bag, but waited for a carriage to pass by before crossing the street. As he descended the cellar steps, he noted that the sign over the cellar door was exactly the same. The name of the newspaper had not changed, and he was pleasantly surprised to see that his name, as co-owner and co-editor, had not been removed but remained just below his older brother’s.

  For as long as he could remember, Tripp had walked willingly in his older brother’s shadow. Still, he had never been as driven or as focused as his brother, especially after their father’s death and their mother’s remarriage, which prompted their move to New York City.

  Now both his mother and his stepfather were gone. Clifford was the only family he had left. Clifford was also one of the very few people here in the city who had known him long enough and well enough to call him Jake, the middle name he preferred to Asher, the given name his brother insisted be used professionally.

  Jake took a deep breath and prayed that the bonds of brotherhood they shared were still strong enough to allow his brother to forgive him and welcome him back into his life. If not, he had no hope his brother would allow him to try, yet again, to be the man he wanted to be.

  Pausing at the bottom of the steps, he set his travel bag down just long enough to open the door. Assaulted by the smell of ink and paper that inspired even more bittersweet memories, he had both his bag and his tools on the floor and the door closed again before the echo of the bell over the door had stopped ringing.