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Heart of Grace

By Linda Hoover

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Chapter One

Botswana, Africa
June 1890

Adam Johnson groaned and licked his dry, cracked lips. How could he be so cold and yet hot at the same time? He shook so hard it was a struggle to keep the blankets wrapped around himself. His body ached from straining not to shake.

Mama knelt next to him. “Don’t you even think about dying, Adam. You will get well.”

“Too tired,” he mumbled. Dying didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

“Dr. Sloan!” The swishing skirts told Adam his mother had moved away from his cot to give the doctor room. “Thank goodness you’re here. He’s burning up.”

A glass tube pushed into his mouth and his eyes were pried open one at a time. A man’s blurry face appeared briefly. “Mrs. Johnson, your husband tells me you think he has malaria. From what I see here, and what Mr. Johnson has told me regarding his symptoms, I have to agree. I brought quinine with me, so I can start treating him immediately.”


The thermometer was removed from Adams's mouth and he heard the doctor tsk tsking.

“How bad is it?” His mother sounded anxious. He wished he could reassure her it didn’t matter. An eternal sleep would be a relief.

The doctor’s voice was brisk and no-nonsense. “A day or two more and I wouldn’t have been able to give you much hope. By catching it now, I believe he’ll recover. It’ll take time, though, and as soon as he’s strong enough to move we should get him to Maun and then back to the United States. A quiet, peaceful place where he can rest for a few months would be ideal.”

His mother knelt by his cot and put her cool hand on his forehead. “Thank God my husband got you here in time.”

“It was definitely by God’s grace and mercy that we made it when we did, Rebecca. We’ll tell you about it over supper.”

That was his father’s deep voice. If Adam weren’t so tired, he’d insist on hearing the story, too.
***
St. Louis, Mo
July, 1890

“What are you doing, Mama?” Lydia Bailey didn’t need an answer. She could see very well that her mother was readying the guest room. White lace curtains flapped in the strong breeze blowing through the open windows, and the bed had been stripped, revealing its blue-striped mattress.

“I’m airing the room, dear.” Mama stepped around the pile of bed linens lying on the floor and began dusting the chest of drawers. The crocheted doily on top sailed onto the laundry heap behind her.

Lydia sighed and slumped against the doorjamb. A lump formed in her throat making it hard to swallow. It was going to start again. “I thought we talked about this last fall.”

Mama looked at Lydia. Her cheeks were flushed with exertion and wisps of brown hair that had escaped the loose knot on her head framed her face. “I don’t think we talked about ‘this’ in particular.”

Lydia tilted her head. “Do you mean to say we aren’t preparing for the usual parade of missionaries, revival ministers, and tent meeting preachers? Because if you are that will be as bad as having a boarder. The little bit of work you’ve done in here has winded you.”

Mama smiled at her, causing lines to crinkle at the corners of her blue eyes.
“No. That is not what we’re preparing for. And I am not winded.”

Lydia straightened and walked into the guest room, coming to a stop in front of Mama. “Then what is ‘this’ in particular?” she asked, gesturing to the room around them.

“This” is a favor for a friend.”

She frowned. “Let’s stop beating about the bush. What are you talking about?”

Mama looped her arm around Lydia’s, led her to the front porch, and sat on the white wicker swing. “Do you remember the Johnsons?”

Lydia narrowed her eyes. “They’re missionaries somewhere in Africa, aren’t they? Or at least they were.”

“They are, yes. Botswana, to be exact. But it’s their son who needs help. He’s recovering from malaria and needs time to rest and recuperate. We have plenty of room, and it’s nice and quiet here.” Mama reached over and brushed a curl back from Lydia’s face. “If he spends his days in your beautiful garden, he’ll feel better in no time.”

Lydia pushed against the porch floor with her toe, setting the swing in motion. “How long is no time?”

Mama smiled and patted her hand. “Well now, that’s up to the good Lord. But, really honey, I don’t think he’ll require much attention from us. You should be able to begin classes as planned.”

“I hope you’re right about the attention, Mama. I can tell that cleaning the guest room has taken more out of you than it used to.”

Mama gave her a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine.”

The weight of losing the opportunity to take classes in August rolled off her chest. Drawing a deep breath of rose-scented air, Lydia leaned back into the cushion. She’d still be able to start working toward a teacher’s certificate.
Now that she knew her school plans wouldn’t change, she relaxed and drank in the beauty of the day. Birds sang in the big pear tree in the front yard, bees buzzed among the pink foxgloves and butterflies danced around the purple blooms of the butterfly bushes on the other side of the porch rail.

Lydia gave the swing another push. “When will he arrive?”

“Sunday afternoon. They visited here once about ten years ago, I think. Do you recall Adam?”

Lydia closed her eyes and thought back to when she was eleven. They’d had the usual number of guests, but only one couple had a child with them. “He was a skinny boy with dark hair and huge dark eyes. I remember him being white as a ghost, and scared of everything.”

Mama chuckled. “That’s not very kind, dear, but fairly accurate if my memory serves. I’m sure he looks much different now, but we’ll have to wait until Sunday to find out.”

***

Adam slowly got off the train in St. Louis, Missouri. The platform swarmed with noisy people scurrying to gather their belongings. He watched with weary disinterest as a porter loaded his luggage in a wagon.
The slip of paper in his hand said a Mr. Douglas would meet him and take him to the Bailey’s. He looked over his shoulder and saw a tall, thin man wearing a rose in his lapel approaching him. According to the information Adam held, that had to be him.

When the man got close enough Adam smiled and put out his hand, which Mr. Douglas grasped and shook with enthusiasm.

“How’re you doing, young fella? You look a mite peaked, but I suppose that’s to be expected. You don’t hear about folks gettin’ malaria around here so you’re kind of a celebrity.” Mr. Douglas swept his hand toward the wagon. “Why don’t you just climb on up and get comfortable? Do you need help?”

“Thank you. I think I can make it.” Adam walked over to the wagon with Mr. Douglas right behind him. Before he could reach to pull himself up, strong hands grasped his waist and he found himself sailing through the air. His heart flew to his throat as he grabbed the seat to keep the momentum from carrying him over the other side. He managed to sit upright, and with a shaking hand took out a handkerchief to mop the perspiration from his face.

Mr. Douglas went to the other side, climbed in, and peered into his face. “You okay? Why, you don’t hardly weigh nothin’.” Adam opened his mouth to reply, but Mr. Douglas kept on going. “Don’t you worry. Mrs. Bailey will have you fattened up in no time. She’s the best cook in the county.”

This man never seemed to take a breath, but it was fine. That meant Adam didn’t have to make his aching head come up with conversation.

They pulled out of the sooty station and merged onto the congested street. Horses pulling wagons or carriages, trolleys and several automobiles competed for space. The autos filled the air with blaring horns, chugging and popping. He instantly forgot his recent flight onto the wagon and studied the noisy machines around them. There were at least four different models and he itched to look under the hood of each one to see what made the engine work.

A red automobile in front of them suddenly backfired with a loud bang. It took all of Mr. Douglas’s strength and skill to keep the horse from bolting into the crowd on the sidewalk.

When the horse was under control and they were rolling forward again Mr. Douglas said, “That was probably a bit more excitement than you needed, but it’ll be nice and quiet at the Bailey’s. I’m thinking it’s a good thing I didn’t bring my wife. Between this traffic and her talking, you would have been plumb wore out by the time we got there.”

Adam studied Mr. Douglas to see if he was making a joke. The talking rattled on and he had to conclude that either Mrs. Douglas talked more than her husband, which didn’t seem possible, or he simply wasn’t aware of his own tendency to speak without ceasing.

The shops and businesses that lined Main Street gave way to residential neighborhoods. They turned up one tree-shaded street and then another until the cacophony of noise faded behind them. They finally clattered to a stop in front of a large, blue Queen Anne-style house, with rose trim and white gingerbread. An inviting porch with wicker furniture wrapped around the front and side of the Bailey home.

Adam quickly climbed down from the wagon before Mr. Douglas could throw him out. When he turned around two women were standing at the bottom of the porch steps. He walked through the gate in the cast iron fence as they approached, meeting them in the shade of an old pear tree. Now that the sun was out of his eyes, he could see their faces.

His smile froze and he took an involuntary step back. A bucket of ice water in the face would have been preferable to seeing this girl from his nightmares. Lydia.

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