Boston, 1873
Shea Randall knew her mother was dying.
Guilt mixed with loss.She should have insisted her mother call a doctor sooner, but Sara Randall had claimed over and over again her pain was only the result of eating bad food, that it would soon go away.No sense spending good money for a doctor.
But the pain hadn’t gone away.It had increased, suddenly exploding in agony.Her mother now lay on a hospital bed, curled with pain so severe, even morphine couldn’t control it.
Despite her frail appearance, Sara had a core of pure steel.She was the most determined woman Shea had ever known.Seeing her now, watching the life drain from her, was like taking a knife to her own heart and exposing it for all to see.
The doctor said Sara Randall’s insides were poisoned by the ruptured appendix, and there was nothing he could do.She had simply waited too long before coming to him.
Sara Randall had only a day or two to live, if that much.No more, he had said, and those days would be agonizing as infection invaded and slowly destroyed her mother’s body.
Shea held her mother’s hand.Sara’s eyes opened.“The shop?”
“Mrs.Mulroney is keeping it open,” Shea said, fighting back tears she knew would only distress her mother further.
“You … should be there.Mrs.Logan’s bonnet …”
“Mrs.Logan’s bonnet is completed,” Shea said, telling a lie her mother would despise.Her mother detested dishonesty of any type.A lie, she always said, is the road to perdition.You can never tell just one lie; lies take on a life of their own, reproducing new lies.A lie was like Hydra, a multiheaded monster that grew two heads for each one cut off.
But Shea justified this particular lie to ease her mother.Anything to relieve the pain and worry.Anything.If she could give her own life in exchange, she would.She was rewarded when her mother’s eyes closed, and Sara Randall seemed to relax; the next pain, Shea knew, would come soon enough.
Shea didn’t want to think of what might happen now.There had always been just the two of them.Her father had died before her birth, and her mother had supported the two of them with the small millinery shop that barely provided a decent living.There was never any money for extras, but Shea and her mother hadn’t needed much.They went to free concerts in the park, to church socials, and on occasion, when they had an extra dollar, to the theater.
They had some friends, but no one really close, since they had been too busy with the shop.And there were no relatives.It had always been the two of them against the world, her mother said, and that was a gracious plenty, more than many had.
There had been a few young men, suitors, but none whom Shea cared about enough to marry.Her mother had always urged her to consider several of the suits.Choose a man with honor, she’d said, and you will grow to love him.Don’t trust emotions, trust common sense.
And Shea had tried.She had been courted by some she believed honorable, like the father whose tintype image Shea adored.She had been courted by some she believed decent, but none had made her heart sing; there was no intensity of feeling such as her mother must have known to remain loyal all these years.
No, love had eluded Shea, and despite her mother’s urging, she refused to settle for less.Now she was twenty-three and thought to be on the shelf.
It was difficult to think of herself that way.She loved her books, she enjoyed drawing, and she knew she was a good designer of hats, particularly whimsical creations that drew customers to the shop.Those inspirations, as well as the caricatures she drew of people she knew, reflected the secret part of a personality usually considered tranquil and sensible.She would never be a good artist, but she had a sense of the ridiculous that she kept hidden to herself for fear of offending people.
But now nothing mattered except her mother.Shea couldn’t even think of life without her.Sara Randall had been friend and teacher as well as parent, and Shea felt lost at even the thought of being alone.Although at times she had rebelled against the possessiveness of and strict standards set by her mother, Shea had always felt deeply loved.
And now …
Desolation flooded Shea until she heard a moan escape from her mother.
“Can I get you anything?”Shea asked in a whisper.
Her mother’s soft gray eyes met hers.“I wish …”
“What do you wish?”
“Be careful, Shea, be careful who you marry.”Sara’s eyes filled with tears, and it was almost more than Shea could bear.She had never seen her mother cry before.
“Someone like Papa?”Sara had never said much about Shea’s father, and Shea had stopped pressing, thinking that his death had probably hurt her mother too badly.He had been charming, her mother said long ago.Handsome and charming and honorable.
But Sara didn’t answer, her mouth contorting as a new wave of pain racked her thin body.Her fingernails dug into Shea’s hand until Shea felt blood running down them.And then Sara’s pain seemed to weaken.
“I’m sorry, Shea,” her mother said in a whisper.
Shea bent down.“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
“I did what I thought was best.”Her mother was looking into her face, willing her to believe.
