A Dangerous Road to Salvation – Extended Epilogue

“If a funeral procession could ever be considered a sight to see,” said Ardelia, touching a black-bordered lace handkerchief to her brimming eyes, “it would have been that one.”

John, seated beside her on the white wicker settee on their sprawling front verandah, reached over to clasp her hand. The left one, whose fourth finger was wearing a splendid diamond ring that nestled next to a solid gold band.

“It was sad, all right,” he agreed solemnly. “The poor man suffered a lot with poor health, toward the end, and even more worrying about finances. Seems like, with all he went through, he ought to’ve been above all those worries that afflict lesser men.”

President Ulysses S. Grant, Eighteenth President of these United States, had died of cancer on July 23^rd, at a cottage atop Mt. McGregor, in Saratoga County. After a private service, attended by many of the men who had helped win the Civil War under General Grant, the funeral train had wended its way down the mountain to Albany, and thence on to the Capitol and the Senate corridor.

There, more than 75,000 mourners passed by. Business buildings had been shuttered, black crepe had been draped over doorways, those males attending wore black armbands, and their ladies appeared in mourning black. The procession, attended by thousands of marchers and a slow drumbeat, included the traditional rider-less horse.

“I have a new appreciation for your history, dear. And for those poor old men who survived that terrible War, stuffed into their blue wool uniforms to join in the cortege.”

“Thanks for going along with me, sweetheart. I felt that paying our respects was the very least we could do. But I worried that it might be too much for you.”

Panting a little in the sultriness of an early August evening, this Year of Our Lord of 1885, Ardelia lazily swished a palmetto fan back and forth. She was feeling the burden of this five month pregnancy slightly more than during the waiting period for their first child, a romping, rollicking baby boy they had happily named Thaddeus. Of course, since his birth had occurred in March, just two and a half years ago, she had suffered only from winter’s cold instead of from stifling heat during the last few wearisome months.

“No, I’m fine. But I will admit that it feels wonderful just to sit and rest, while someone else prepares our dinner for us.”

He gave her his usual grin and squeezed her hand with understanding. They had endured so much tribulation and heartache, these two, for a period that had seemed endless in its making. John knew with absolute certainty that he would not be here today, back in his home town, with his home folks surrounding him, had this amazing woman not come into his life.

*****

After a long, arduous, but immensely satisfying journey north from New York City more than five years ago, he had boldly pulled his buckboard, with its team of tired draft horses, into the graveled driveway of his parents’ elegant mansion. Outside lanterns had been lit against the gathering gloom, and almost every many-paned window glowed with indoor warmth. Reassuringly, the house looked as it always had, with no visible changes; perhaps that had been the intention of a family who had never given up hope for seeing their long-lost heir again, despite the passage of time.

Throwing aside the reins, setting the wagon’s hand brake, John had looked at the staunch, sturdy wife beside him, and grinned.

“We’re here, Deely,” he had softly confirmed her own dreams. “We’re here.”

“Oh, John.” It was a whisper straight from the heart. “What a welcome for you.”

“And for you. C’mon, let’s go inside.” He had climbed down, somewhat stiffly and creakily as was to be expected after spending so many hours of travel atop a spring-less seat, and then reached up to swing Ardelia to the ground on a spasm of pure joy.

What a welcome, indeed!

Edward, the Suttons’ respectable butler, had opened the door with a look of consternation and disapproval for the unmitigated gall of visitors who arrived unannounced in such a slovenly fashion. But the expression melted away into unreserved pleasure as John stepped forward, into the light.

“Master John!” he cried, unable to help himself.

“What?” Young Henry, crossing the tiled hall beyond with a book in his hand, stopped dead in shock. “John, you said? John?”

Letting out a whoop of delight, the boy raced forward to fling himself into his brother’s arms.

“Easy, there, fellah.” John, who had been almost knocked over by exuberance, laughed aloud. “Reckon it’s mighty good to see you again, too.”

“But—how—when—”

John, meanwhile, had moved slightly sideways to pump the butler’s hand. “H’lo, Edward.”

A huge grin slashed across their retainer’s face. “So wonderful to have you back where you belong, Master John. The bad penny always turns up, doesn’t it, sir?”

Unoffended, John grinned back. “I prefer to think of it as being the prodigal son if you don’t mind. We’re mighty hungry; don’t suppose there’s any fatted calf around, is there?”

“We’re almost ready to sit down for supper,” volunteered Henry, according his brother a look of absolute hero worship. “Wait until everybody sees you!”

“Yes, we have a lot of news to share, now that it’s finally become safe to return. Henry, wouldja be so kind as to fetch the stableman—Robert; he’s still here?—and ask him to take the wagon around back, unhitch the horses, and get all of our baggage unloaded. Meanwhile, this is my wife, Ardelia.”

She had stood back, waiting patiently while the initial shock of greeting eased and a moment could be given over to introductions. In the middle of all that, a sweet voice could be heard calling from farther inside, growing louder and more insistent as its owner approached.

“Henry, dear, where have you gotten to? I do believe I heard the bell ring for supper. There’s no point in waiting until the food is cold before we—oh, dear heaven,” as the lady reached this thunderstruck knot milling about in her foyer. Then a gasp, “Oh, my dear heaven—! John! It’s John!”

Clearly this was the lovely Solange Sutton; she sagged and would have collapsed then and there if he had not leaped forward to grab and support her. “Yes, Mother,” he told her tenderly, “it’s me, your son, not quite back from the dead but almighty happy to be here. Bear up, please. Because I haven’t come alone. I’ve brought you a daughter-in-law.”

Two bombshells, right in a row, with the second being dealt before the poor woman had time to recover from the first. But breeding tells, and she immediately rose to the occasion by advancing to kiss Ardelia gently on the cheek.

“My dear, I’m so delighted to know you. But, here, why are we all standing about? Come inside immediately! John, I shall allow you a few minutes to take your bride upstairs, to your old room, so both of you can remove the dust of travel and wash up whilst I fetch your father. Then we’ll all enjoy our meal together and catch up.”

Over the supper table, it became a time for grins, smiles, guffaws, laughter, hugs, and clapping on the back. And even some tears and choking up.

John’s father, the stately J.F., was far too manly a man to fall apart on the spot, as his wife had been close to doing. But his gaze rested with something almost like adoration on the beloved face of his son and heir, gone far too long from the group and probably living on the very edge of danger all that while.

John, wolfing down a cut of cold roast beef that gave great credit to the family cook, did his best to downplay the very hard physical work and the ongoing sideline of danger he had constantly endured. No point in worrying his family after the fact. Though he supposed the old man, the veteran of a few internecine wars himself, probably guessed.

“Where’s Pen?” he wanted to know, beaming affection and goodwill to all those seated around the massive Sutton table.

“Oh, my dear, she’s visiting your Aunt Nellie, over in Syracuse. Being completely unaware, of course, that you would ever—that you might—” Near tears, Solange blundered to a stop, looking as if she wanted nothing more than to pull her older son close and keep him there forever.

Through all the story of John’s convoluted adventures—and misadventures—his various attempts at using an alias, and the expected interruptions for questions or comments, Ardelia had sat quietly. Right now was the time for her husband’s reunion with reality; her time, she knew, would come when it should. She wasn’t feeling resentful; just incredibly grateful and blessed. And relieved that they both had survived, relatively unscathed.

He had survived, with her help and support, and they had returned to the loving arms of his family.

They sat nibbling and sipping and talking for quite some time, until full dark, and several (especially the staff) were working to contain yawns. Then, however, the center of operations moved into the parlor, with sherry and dessert and more comfortable surroundings. John was delighted to see that no furnishings had been removed, no walls repainted or re-papered. All was happily, thankfully, the same.

“And so you definitely brought along this murderer’s handwritten confession?” J.F., still piecing segments together, had unbuttoned his frock coat for comfort and settled back into his favorite chair.

“Sure did, Pop. In fact, that was one of the last things I did down there.” John gave a reminiscent shudder at the tightrope he had very carefully walked during his venture into Mick Hennessey’s underground world of crime and intrigue.

“He has refused to share all the details of how he accomplished that, even with me,” quietly interjected Ardelia. “Perhaps, when the two of you spend some time together, he will be more forthcoming with you, Mr. Sutton.”

Suddenly he turned his full attention upon this brand-new daughter-in-law, of whose existence he had not even been aware. “Ardelia, is it?”

“Deely,” said John, shifting to warm her with his smile. “We who love her call her Deely.”

“Deely. I like that. Then maybe it’ll work out for you, Deely, when you start feeling more at home, to dispense with formal titles and use Papa and Mama. If, of course, you don’t feel that you would be betraying your own parents by doing so,” he added politely.

The ever-ready tears came glittering into the depths of Ardelia’s remarkable green eyes, and Solange, responding to both mood and sentiment, reached across the few intervening inches from her own chair to clasp the girl’s hand as she answered, “Not at all. Thank you.”

“Then this nightmare is finally over?” J.F. continued. “You’re home—” his voice involuntarily clutched and broke, “—for good—?”

John had never felt so strong, so tall, so upright, so much his father’s son, than at this very moment. “It looks that way. Maybe tomorrow you’ll go with me to the authorities, to see what—”

“I’d be proud to do that. But, first, a visit to Hadley McLennon, to clarify your position.”

“Your innocent position,” piped up Henry, who had remained remarkably silent during most of these proceedings. Just taking in information and sopping it up like a sponge.

Laughing, John retrieved his half-empty glass of sherry. “Now there’s a burgeonin’ lawyer for you, Pop. Part of the firm, right?”

“Wrong,” said Henry. “I intend to be a prosecutor. I want to fight against the villains, not for them.”

More laughter. Since his brother had been perched on a hassock, he was close enough for John to tumble the boy’s hair in good-natured rivalry.

“Hey!” protested Henry with a frown. “Leave be. It’s taken me weeks to train the cut that way.”

“And the fellow has taken off for good, you said?” J.F. returned to his former subject with a small frown.

“Hutch Bailey, the one who—the one who did the crime … here … Yes. At least, I assume so; he mentioned that, anyway. He’ll be on the run now, as I was, headin’ west, away from the law. Maybe—maybe he’ll even make it.”

“Oh, John, dear, you are so thin,” murmured Solange with a mother’s care. “And your clothing—atrocious.”

“Didn’t have access to very good tailors, where I was, Mother.” Remembering just where he had been, John pulled a wry smile. “I usually just threw on whatever was handy. And semi-clean.”

Since it seemed that most of the serious stuff had been dealt with—at least pigeon-holed, for the time being—Solange drew Ardelia into the general conversation. “Your speech is so charming, my dear. Pray, tell me, how did you two meet?”

The tears were gone, quickly replaced by the amusement that could now bubble freely to the surface. Ardelia began to explain the circumstances in brief detail that had brought her from Manchester, to her transport across the Atlantic via a modern steamship, to her union with their son.

For a few moments, Solange looked distinctly wistful. “Oh, my. Such trouble. And such unhappiness. And we had no way of knowing, no way of helping …”

“Both of you helped more than you’ll ever realize, Mother,” John gently pointed out. “I left here, that rainy night, with a good deal of cash, which kept me on my way. My biggest regret was that I couldn’t send any letters to reassure you as to how I was gettin’ along. I asked Mr. Standish—” A delicate pause.

“Yes, I heard from him,” J.F. responded gruffly. “Got a couple letters from the old boy, and once even a telegram. It gave us hope that you were—you were still alive … at least—to that point…”

Silence, the thick, heavy silence of cotton wool, as everyone digested that.

All sorts of repercussions seemed to bounce dully from wall to wall, with soundless echoes.

John set aside his glass to rise and take the few intermediate steps between his chair and his wife’s. Then, surprising everyone, he knelt before Ardelia and lifted her left hand to his lips.

“We were married in January, under my assumed name,” he explained to his family, although his warm gaze focused on the woman he so dearly loved. “We’d like to marry again, for real. How would you like to help my girl plan her wedding, Mother?”

*****

The arrangements took three months, instead of the usual year. And, since this was a reaffirmation of their vows (poor Solange had agonized for weeks over how to word the invitations being sent out, due to such an uncommon situation), Ardelia insisted—and won the minor skirmish with her mother-in-law—that some of the expected pomp and circumstance be done away with.

Meanwhile, John had been on the lookout for a home into which the newlyweds could settle and make their own. While they were doubly welcome to stay at the Sutton residence for as long as necessary, both found the somewhat circumscribed atmosphere to be increasingly not to their liking.

“If I wanna tumble you in bed some afternoon, I don’t look forward to hearin’ my mother raise her eyebrows at the noise, or my father wonderin’ why I’m not at the office,” John sometimes fumed, when they were out and about and, thankfully, alone.

Ardelia could sympathize, but she would never dream of directly criticizing her in-laws. Best to let John vent, while she listened.

There was the question of his unsuitable wardrobe, which John found so comfortable but with which his parents took issue. Eventually, to please them, he visited the tailor shop that had served their family for three generations and got his hard, muscular form measured for new woolen frock coats and trousers.

Then came the question of his return to the firm, once the whole legal mess over Bryony’s homicide had been settled. Accompanied by both J.F. and his criminal defense attorney, file facts were updated so that John’s name could be removed from the short list of suspects and one Hutch Bailey’s name could be added, instead. After that, Wanted posters, with the killer’s description and particulars, were sent out to what seemed like the four corners of the earth. The trouble was, John wasn’t sure he wanted to return.

Despite (or perhaps partly because of) the peril lurking on the fringe of his every recent action, he had enjoyed the various types of endeavors he had taken up—with relative success—at various types of commerce. He had enjoyed occasionally hobnobbing with his simple laboring class of fellow workers, drinking ale at the local pub and arguing over the heated topics of the day. He didn’t want to give up that freedom.

Perhaps his blood wasn’t as blue as his mother claimed.

At any rate, he had decided to take some well-deserved time off so that he and Ardelia might get past the honeymoon stage and into the truly wedded part of their marriage. And, while he could be temporarily free from all forms of paperwork, he could consider his prospects to see what he actually wanted to do.

The last issue was a combination of his speech and his appearance. To please his mother, who had suffered so much during his absence, John began to take particular care with how he spoke. No slang, no dropping of a “g” at the end of a word, no inadvertent cusses or oaths: a return to his lawyerly diction and articulation of a year in the past.

On the matter of manly façade, however, he refused to budge. He had earned every callus, every scar, every bruise on his hands, front to back, and he wore them proudly as a badge of honor. He would continue any necessary manual labor like chopping wood for the fireplaces or shoveling snow off the walk, no matter what further damage might be inflicted. If that truly bothered Solange, then, he determined, she just needn’t look!

“It’s awfully good of my parents to let us stay here till we get on our feet,” was his common complaint to Ardelia, on the sly. “And I appreciate their effort. Don’t you?”

“Indeed, yes,” agreed his wife, demurely. She knew exactly what was coming next; she’d heard it before.

“But, Jehoshaphat! I’m an adult, mature, married man. I don’t need my mother checking to see whether I’ve gotten enough sleep or if I’ve put on clean long johns. That’s your job, Deely.”

Although she stuffed a bubble of laughter back down inside before it could escape, the mirth crinkled her eyes and quirked her lips. “Oh, by all means.”

“It’s like—like wearing a shirt whose collar is way too tight. Sometimes I feel as if I’m choking to death on my parents’ goodness. Gratitude comes at a high price, my girl.”

It wasn’t long after that particular conversation that John found for her the house of her dreams.

Oh, not that she had voiced any special longing for a conservatory, or a brick flower-lined walk, or plenty of spacious rooms whose windows could be opened to fresh air, or a small forest of native trees set upon lovely green acres of lawn. But that was what she got, in a Victorian-style three-story abode, out in the country several miles away from the town’s border (and, more importantly, some ten miles away from the elder Suttons’ home).

On the day the young couple moved in to take up residence, once everyone was finally gone and the doors could be firmly locked against entrance, John and Ardelia delightedly christened the pretty patterned blue carpet in the parlor. And the fireplace hearth rug in what would be his study. And

the priceless Persian floor covering in the wallpapered dining room. And, eventually, their own bed, in the master suite.

*****

Thus, eventually, after the sanctification of a legal marriage (with ample splendor to satisfy her mother-in-law and ample simplicity to satisfy the bride), little Thaddeus was conceived. Ardelia considered herself to be the luckiest of women, with a loving husband, a beautiful son, a house that she could decorate and furnish as she wished, a maid and a cook and an experienced nurse for the baby.

John himself had returned with gusto to the good life he had enjoyed before the calamity had occurred: a large stable, which housed the infamous buckboard, his faithful team of Belgians, and the beautiful mare Dascha, whom he had been forced to sell in Charleston, but once settled back in Albany, worked for months to locate and purchase. Besides his interest in and care for the horses he loved, he had been haunting some of the commercial enterprises of industrious, industrial Albany, talking to business owners and business leaders about the type of work they offered, the salary, and conditions whether safe or unsafe.

One, a portly, paunchy gentleman who had been called away from his cigar on the rear terrace of his office building, had given John a suspicious look from under heavy brows. “What are you, a unionist?”

“So? What if I am?” John had inquired pleasantly.

There was work to be done here, to help unemployed men find decent paying jobs that would support their families. In the end, John did return to his father’s law firm. But only, after serious, occasionally heated discussion between the two men that encompassed several afternoons, if his own participation could take a different turn. Less financial, more charitable; less catering to the wealthy, more outgrowth to the community.

Once they had shaken hands on the arrangement, J.F. had reported to his wife, with a mixture of irritation and pride, that their son had become a do-gooder, with strangely socialistic views.

Solange, at the moment looking over their supply of linen napkins to determine which must be replaced, had smiled. “He’ll run for Congress some day.”

Yes, life was very sweet, and the days were very full, after their hard times. Ardelia often hoped that her parents might be watching her, from their place in heaven, and nodding approval.

When Thaddeus was barely nine months old, Ardelia discovered that she was once again with child. The agonizing hours of labor she had endured to deliver her first, even though aided by both a midwife and Solange in the background, were not yet a distant memory, and she quaked a little at the idea of a second ordeal in so short a time.

“Uhh,” said John when she told him the news.

Banished from their bedroom during that awful span, he had been forced to take refuge in his office, accompanied by a large bottle of whiskey. There, the sound of her agonized screams could be somewhat muffled behind a closed door and his own covered ears. He would take and bear any amount of pain for himself; for another, his beloved wife, he was helpless.

Now, putting aside his newspaper, he had risen to do what he did best: enfolding her in his arms to cradle her sun-bright head against his collarbone.

“Oh, darlin’, I’m sorry,” he whispered, in genuine distress.

“Don’t be, John. We wanted a large family. And I’ve heard,” she told him bravely, “that the second confinement is much easier.”

She was never to know.

By her reckoning, Ardelia was partway into her fourth month when something went terribly wrong. Mild distress, spotting; torment enough to shriek down the rafters, heavy bleeding; collapse.

Fortunately, John was home at the time and was able to carry her to bed and send for the doctor. And then, white to the lips, he had waited. And waited.

“I’m afraid this just happens sometimes,” Dr. Williams told him quietly, much later. “We don’t know why, or what goes wrong. But she’s young and healthy, John. Let her recover; let her take her time at it. And then—well, you go on from there.”

Heartbroken, Ardelia had sobbed in her husband’s arms, seeking solace that she could not find, seeking redemption for a tragedy for which she could not be blamed. It just happened sometimes.

It took her so long to recover, physically and emotionally, that finally a desperate John left little Thaddeus behind in the care of the nurse and both his parents and stole her away for an extended paddleboat cruise down the Hudson and back. The fresh salt air, as they reached the river’s mouth where it emptied into the Atlantic, blew a hint of color into her cheeks, and encouraged her to join in slow promenades on the upper deck with her husband.

Eventually, returned home, she regained her strength and her verve, but not all of her old spirit. A woman’s psyche is never the same after the loss of a child. There is always the hint of heartache left behind, always the invisible ghost, beside Thad, of the baby that might have been.

For some time after that, their social life was curtailed; both she and John preferred quiet evenings, with Thaddeus crawling about on the parlor rug (probably the one upon which he had been conceived) and a good book to read or a knitting project to finish. Penelope, at an active thirteen, often came to stay with them, enjoying the chance to play with a nephew she adored.

Letters had become one of the high points of Ardelia’s life. She began making a list of all the persons with whom John had come in contact, during his wild, hectic year of wandering, and then those of her own acquaintance, so that addresses could be found and a connection could be initiated and, hopefully, renewed and maintained.

Soon a regular delivery route was set up, with a beeline straight to the junior Suttons’ door.

She wrote to Rosellen Marple and her parents, in Manchester, with the amazing news of all that had happened since her departure from those great shores. She wrote to Silas Emmerson. She wrote to Cassie Van Dyke, only to discover that the girl had been safely delivered of a healthy son, named, predictably, Reuben, Junior.

Then, reaching back into the mists of time, she wrote to the Standish family, in Chicago, thanking them for their invaluable help. She wrote to Adam Fowler, at the Philadelphia Examiner. She even, shockingly, wrote a brief note to Mick Hennessey (“Why on earth?” John had demanded, eyebrows raised at this) but was not surprised when the envelope had been eventually returned and an “Addressee Unknown” stamped upon its pitted and pockmarked surface.

Although Ardelia was not, and would never be considered, a lady of leisure, she did spend an hour or two in her sitting room each day. There, she positioned herself comfortably at the elegant writing desk located before a large window, happily dipping her pen into an ink bottle and forming her concise script onto sheet after sheet of monogrammed paper.

It took quite some time, after her devastating miscarriage, for John to seek her bed again. Not strictly true—they had always shared a bed (except for those lonely few early days in Chattanooga). But, after sharing in her grief and pain, he couldn’t bring himself to approach her, other than with a chaste kiss now and then, for fear of a second tragedy. And how could he be sure that she had actually completely recovered, in every way, from that ordeal?

Finally, Ardelia knew when she was ready. She simply needed to convince John. With a shining inner strength and self-confidence, she realized that neither dared fear what might happen in the future; they must meet whatever came, head-on. Tears and smiles were all part of life.

Instinctively she had relied on the arts of seduction, something basic to the nature of nearly every woman, to bring him back to her.

Now, their third child’s birth was due very soon, in December. Perhaps, a Christmas baby.

*****

“We’ve come so far,” mused John, surveying, from the vantage point of the verandah’s wicker settee, his acres, his possessions, and his wife, with a great deal of satisfaction welling up in his heart.

Dressed for the former president’s sober funeral in lightweight black wool, he had gone first, today, with Ardelia’s knowledge and understanding, to visit Bryony’s memorial in the family crypt, set up a vase of summer flowers, and say a few prayers. He had loved her so much, in the first flush of young manhood; they had been happy together, making a wonderful and enviable life.

But his love for Ardelia was as a mature and battle-scarred adult. It would, he knew, stand the test of the ages. Whatever small skirmishes that might ensue over unimportant matters they would work out the disagreement and smooth over the rough spot. He was hers, and she was his, forever.

The palm of his left hand lay flat now on the small, hard mound of her belly, centered upon its renewed promise of life enduring.

“Think you’re carrying a girl?” he asked whimsically.

“I have no idea. Penelope did the needle test, but—”

“Needle test?” Shocked, he sat upright with a jerk. “What on earth?”

“Oh, hush, John,” she told him placidly. “A needle, hung from a long piece of thread, is held suspended over the woman’s middle. After a bit, the thing supposedly begins to move on its own, and the direction of its swing—left to right, or down to up—tells you the sex of the child inside.”

“Huh.” He considered that for a moment. “And what was the outcome?”

She laughed. “Oh, I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Pen, she’ll remember. I was half-asleep at the time.”

“Ah. One of those old wives has been telling tales again, eh?”

“I do believe. John, dear, the mosquitoes are getting ever fiercer, and I am feeling so dreadfully tired. Do you think we might go inside?”

“I think we might indeed. Come on, love of my life.” Rising, he held out both hands to pull her added bulk upright. “I’ll even give you a back rub pretty soon.”

She looked up at him. Five years of marriage had not dimmed the light of welcome for either, nor banked the fires of passion that had finally drawn them together after what might have been his final day on the planet.

“That would be wonderful,” Ardelia sighed with anticipated pleasure.

He paused, with his arm around her narrow shoulders, there on the threshold of the front door, to cast one final glance around the property. Then the pounding of a small toddler’s feet on the foyer’s bare floor, and his crow of delight at greeting his parents, beckoned them with a siren’s call.

“Yup,” said John. “Wonderful.”

And closed the door.

THE END

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