Page 47 of More than Words Can Say

Rising up on tiptoes again, Abigail tipped the pitcher sideways and slid it onto the shelf next to the basin. Halfway in, though, it stuck on something. She scooted it to the right until it cleared whatever had been blocking its progress, then tucked it securely onto the shelf. Afraid she might have inadvertently pushed one of Zach’s belongings to the back of the wardrobe where he wouldn’t be able to find it, she fetched a chair from the corner and climbed atop it to retrieve whatever she’d displaced. Reaching in nearly elbow-deep, Abigail felt around in the shadows until her fingers brushed against a small leather case. She pulled it to the foreground, intending to simply leave it there for her husband to find when he needed it, but curiosity stirred.

Zach had left this entire shelf empty save this one item. Was it important to him? But if so, why had he pushed it so far back that it couldn’t be seen? It seemed an odd contradiction.

Taking it down, she examined the small case, running her fingers over the initials embossed on the top flap. J.M. Who was J.M.? The M could stand for Mitchell, she supposed, the surname Zach had been born with, but what about the J? His father perhaps? Grandfather? The leather looked old, well-worn at the corners. Whoever it had belonged to had used it often. She eased a finger under the flap and slipped the loop free of the button holding it in place. She peeled back the flap and found a rather ordinary deck of playing cards.

Her brow furrowed. An odd memento. She’d expected to find a tintype of Zach’s family or a pocket Bible or something else of sentimental value.

“Abigail? Are you here?” Rosalind’s voice echoed up the stairwell, startling Abigail badly enough that she nearly lost her balance on the chair.

“Upstairs,” she called, then frantically closed the card case and thrust it back onto the shelf. It wouldn’t do to be caught snooping through her husband’s belongings. Besides, she had much more important business to discuss with her sister.

Abigail scrambled off the chair, returned it to its designated corner, and exited the room just as Rosalind hit the top stair.

“Mrs. Gillespie insisted I accept a half dozen eggs in exchange for the delivery last week and today. I added them to our supply.”

Abigail grinned. “She’s such a sweetheart. I’ve told her she’s doing us a favor by taking the day-old bread off our hands, but she insists on bartering whenever she’s able.”

“Pride is a delicate thing,” Rosalind said. “She doesn’t want to admit to accepting charity.”

Abigail met her sister’s eye. “It’s hard for some people to accept help from others.”

Rosalind frowned, obviously sensing Abby’s double meaning.

“Come sit with me in the parlor, Rosie.” Abigail laid a gentle hand on her sister’s arm. “Zach won’t be home for another hour, and it’s been a while since we’ve talked.”

“Talked? About what?” Rosalind’s voice rose slightly, and an expression came over her face that reminded Abigail of a rabbit caught in a snare. “What did Zach tell you?”

“Frustratingly little,” Abby admitted, “but enough for me to know that you’ve been carrying something on your own for far too long. Whatever it is, I want to help.”

Rosalind pivoted sharply and crossed her arms over her midsection.

The self-imposed distance slashed at Abigail’s heart. Perhaps she shouldn’t push. Rosalind obviously didn’t want to talk, and she feared driving a wedge between them if she forced the issue. But then she remembered Zach’s foot in her door. The easy path rarely brought healing. Her sister carried a secret that had her seeking out lessons in defending herself against attack. Abigail couldn’t just let the matter drop.

She circled her sister until she could see her face. “I’m sorry, Rosie. Sorry that I’ve been so wrapped up in bakery business that I failed to notice what you were going through. I let you down, but I’m here now, and I want to support you. To help you however I can.”

Her sister pressed her lips together as she shook her head. “I can’t tell you, Abby.” Her voice rasped as if she’d wandered too close to a campfire. Her eyes reddened, and her chin quivered. “You’ll be so ashamed.”

Abigail vowed that no matter what her sister revealed, she’d show no shock and offer no recriminations. Only compassion.

“You’re my sister.” Abigail squeezed Rosalind’s arm. “I love you. No matter what. You stood by me after what happened with Benedict. Let me stand by you now. Please.”

Rosie’s face crumpled. Her arms uncrossed, and tears slid down her cheeks. Abby didn’t hesitate. She wrapped her sister in a hug and held on tight. A sob exploded from Rosalind’s chest, and her arms came around Abby’s waist. She bent her head to Abby’s shoulder and let the tears fall.

After long minutes of mutual tears and murmured comfort, the two sisters finally made their way to the parlor and sat side by side on the settee. True to her vow, Abigail listened to Rosalind’s tale with objective stoicism. At least on the outside. She nodded encouragingly and held Rosie’s hand even as horror and heartbreak flared in equal measures in her breast.

Her baby sister had been manipulated by an older man, tricked into compromising herself in the guise of helping her dying father. Yes, she bore responsibility for her foolish choice, but it seemed grossly unfair that she should be the only one to pay the consequences. A man who profited from a young girl’s desperation deserved to rot in jail, even if his actions weren’t technically illegal. They were morally reprehensible and should be punished.

Yet even as outrage heated her blood, Abigail knew that railing at the corrupt photographer would do her sister no good. It wouldn’t change what had happened, wouldn’t remove the encroaching danger Rosie faced, and wouldn’t help her move forward. So instead, Abigail held tight to her sister’s hand and made sure Rosalind knew she wasn’t alone.

“We’ll get through this, Rosie. With God’s help, no problem is insurmountable.”

“God and your husband.” Rosalind managed a small smile as she dabbed wetness from her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Zach taught me the most wonderful things today, Abby.” Her eyes lit up, and she bounced a bit on the settee as she turned to face her sister more fully. “Did you know that a man has weak spots a woman can exploit? Like gouging at his eyes or stomping the heel of our shoe onto the top of his foot. An elbow to the soft spot under his ribs can knock the wind out of him.” She demonstrated with a short, quick jab of her elbow into the air above the settee’s arm. “And a knee to, well, you know . . .” Pink colored Rosalind’s cheeks. “Zach said if you jab as hard as you can, a man will double over and give you the opportunity to run away. Apparently an injury to that . . . area is quite debilitating.”

Abigail blinked, not sure how to respond to such frank commentary. “Well. I suppose that’s . . . good to know.”

“He insisted I hit him. Full strength. I didn’t want to at first. I was afraid I’d hurt him. But he insisted. He said I needed to know what kind of force to use. The poor man will be sporting a few bruises tonight.” As her enthusiasm built at the retelling, Rosalind’s natural optimism returned. Tears dried, and the temporary blotchiness of her complexion dissipated to reveal her usual peaches and cream. “He did protect his eyes and other . . . sensitive areas,” she said, “but I lost count of how many times he took my elbow to his midsection and my heel to his foot.”

“Oh dear.” Abigail looked guiltily at her sister. “I hope it wasn’t his right foot. I already abused that one quite shamefully with my door.”