Stephanie Grace Whitson - Most Unsuitable Match, A

2011 by Stephanie Grace Whitson

Cover design by Dan Pitts

Cover illustration by William Graf

Published by Bethany House Publishers

11400 Hampshire Avenue South

Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

www.bethanyhouse.com

Bethany House Publishers is a division of

Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

Ebook edition created 2011

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meanselectronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwisewithout the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

ISBN 978-1-4412-3242-7

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

Dedicated to the memory of

Gods extraordinary women

in every place,

in every time.

Let her own works praise her in the gates.

Proverbs 31:31

CONTENTS

P SALM 6:6

Sunday, May 16, 1869
St. Charles, Missouri

Kneeling before the tombstone, eighteen-year-old Fannie Rousseau retrieved the scrub brush from the water bucket shed just settled in the grass. First, she attacked the dried bird droppings on the back side of the stone, then moved on to the deep grooves carving the name Rousseau into the cool gray surface. Shed just finished cleaning out the second s when a familiar voice sounded from across the cemetery.

Land sakes , child, what on earth are you doin? Youll ruin your hands. And put that bonnet back on. What will your mother s-s

When Fannie laid her hand atop the gravestone to steady herself and lifted her tear-stained face toward Hannah, the old woman stopped midword. Tucking an errant hank of wiry gray hair back under the kerchief tied about her head, she hurried to where Fannie knelt. Her voice more gentle than scolding, she said, You know your mother would have my hide for letting you be seen in public doing such a thing. She nodded toward the red brick church just outside the cemetery fence. And its the Sabbath, little miss. What were you thinking?

Fannie didnt have an answer. At least not one she wanted to say aloud. She scrubbed out the rest of the tombstone grooves before dropping the brush into the bucket and standing back up. The soil atop Mothers grave had finally sunk enough to be level with Papas side, but the grass hadnt filled in yet. For now, the tombstone only told half a story. Louis Rousseau, 18211866, Beloved Husband. Eleanor Rousseau, 1831____. The stonemason had yet to add the year 1869 to Mothers side. Fannie contemplated the words Beloved Husband. She supposed it was only right to add Beloved Wife to Mothers side. Even if she would always wonder if it was true.

Hannah picked up the bucket and, splaying her fingers across the rim, upended it, sprinkling the newly seeded side of the grave with water as she murmured, I cant imagine what people thought when they saw you walking up here, scrub bucket in hand, bonnet dangling like a common servant. The very idea! Hannah clicked her tongue disapprovingly. And you didnt even attend services, did you?

Fannie looked up at the church spire, then back at the tombstone. I didnt want to face Mr. Vandekamp. That was partially true. Shed grown wary of the man handling Papas affairs of late, what with his hints about her future and his coupling of her name with that of Percy Harvey. Percy might be heir to a considerable fortune, but he made her skin crawl.

Avoiding Hannahs gaze, Fannie shrugged. Anyone who matters knows Im not in the habit of avoiding church. She paused. Maybe they didnt even notice me here.

Hannah looked past the rows of gravestones toward the street, then back at the ground at their feet. They noticed.

Hannah was right, of course. People had to have seen Fannie on her knees here, scrubbing like a washerwoman. Papa had chosen the center of the graveyard for the family plot, and the slight rise in this part of the cemetery would naturally draw their eyes toward the name Rousseau every time someone ventured past. Of course, if the location didnt do the trick, Mother had made certain people would look this way when she ordered a life-sized stone angel to weep over Papas grave.

There it was again, the increasingly frequent tinge of annoyance that always mingled with Fannies grief. What good did a stone angel do? It was too late for Papa to know how Mother felt about him. And now it was too late for Fannie, too. Any chance she might have had to understand Mother was forever lost.

Lately, all Fannies doubts and questions over the years seemed to have rolled themselves into a fast-growing, ever-darkening cloud of emotion she didnt quite know how to handle. This morning that cloud had been especially dense. And so, feeling confused and guilty about every negative thing shed ever felt against Mother and not wanting to face the people at church, shed come here. Tending a grave was something a good daughter would do, wasnt it? Something a daughter should do. She glanced up at the stone angel. Was Mother feeling just this way after Papa died? Did she have regrets? Had ordering the angel made her feel better?

I want to plant rosebushes on either side of the tombstone, she said abruptly. Yellow ones.

Thatll be nice, Hannah said, but Mr. McWilliams will be happy to do that. You dont want him thinking youre displeased with his caretaking.

Fannie swiped at fresh tears. I want to plant them myself. I need to do something. She gestured toward the new grave. Something for her. Yellow roses were her favorite, and Papa never seemed to remember. He always gave her red ones.

Hannahs voice was gentle. Red roses say I love you .

She was rightagain. Red roses meant love. Yellow meant friendship and fidelity. Was there some hidden meaning in Mothers liking yellow and Papa sending red? Would she always have these niggling doubts about everything? Isnt the best way to say I love you to give what someone likes, instead of what custom dictates?

I see your thoughts, child. Hannah reached up and brushed one of Fannies blond curls away from her face. There was love in that house. They just didnt show it the way you wanted them to. Thats all it was, little miss. They just didnt know how to show it.

Fannie pressed her lips together. Somehow, Hannahs tender touch made the longing worse. Why hadnt Mother ever done things like that? She cleared her throat. There was no point in bringing that up again. It made her sound spoiled and ungrateful. Maybe she was both of those things. Shed never heard her parents say a harsh word to each other. Theyd given her everything shed ever wanted. Mother had even been talking about a trip to Europe for them both. You should be counting your blessings instead of feeling sorry for yourself. Hannah was right. That feeling of being held at arms length didnt mean anything. It was just Papa and Mothers way.

Hannahs gently insistent voice brought Fannie back to the moment. Lets get you home so I can clean your skirt. She grimaced as she bent to inspect the smudges where Fannies knees had met the earth. Then, bucket in hand, she gave Fannie a one-armed hug.