A Whisper of Peace

Chapter Twenty-Five





Missus Lizzie?”

Lizzie glanced over her shoulder, and a fond smile pulled at her lips. Naibi, faithful as a puppy dog, followed Lizzie between the rows of corn. The child asked endless questions, but Lizzie didn’t mind. Over her week of caring for the children, they’d weaseled their way firmly into her heart.

“Yes? What do you want now?” She fingered a plump ear, checking for signs of readiness.

“Why do you live here all alone instead of in the village with Dine’e?”

Lizzie jerked, the innocent question stabbing like a knife in her breast. How could she explain that the People had no use for her? It would be far too confusing for a girl of such tender years. “I . . . I like it here. It’s my home.” She moved to the next tall, rustling stalk.

“But don’t you get lonely?” Naibi imitated Lizzie’s actions, gently pinching an ear while her face crunched in concentration.

Lizzie drew in a deep breath. She wouldn’t lie to the child. “Sometimes.” But my loneliness will soon end. Soon I will be with my father. She forced a grin, tweaking Naibi’s nose. “But I have you and Etu.”

The little girl pinned Lizzie with a serious stare. “But Etu and I will leave soon. When the sickness is gone, we will go back to the village and live in the mission building. So you will be alone again.” Her expression turned hopeful. “But you have George and Martha and Thomas and all the other dogs. So you will not be lonely, yes?”

The child’s concern warmed Lizzie to the center of her being. “I’ll be fine.”

“Good.” Naibi threw her arms around Lizzie’s middle and hugged her hard. She tilted her head back, her tangled bangs catching in her thick eyelashes. “And we will come visit you—me and Etu and Mister Clay.”

Mister Clay . . . Her heart gave a happy skip at the sound of his name. He’d stopped by her cabin every day to check on the children. The exuberant pair always raced across the yard to greet him. With effort, she’d managed to suppress her desire to follow their example and run into his arms. It would be foolhardy to express her growing feelings for the kindhearted man who bestowed hugs and smiles on the children—he was here to serve the village, and she was preparing for a life far away from the village. Admitting the affection that blossomed ever greater with each visit would only lead to heartache.

“That would be wonderful.” Lizzie returned Naibi’s hug. “But for now, Etu caught a rabbit in his snare—we need to fry it up. So let’s go wash our hands and prepare our lunch.”

Naibi crinkled her nose. “You are like Mister Clay. Always wash, wash, wash.” She giggled and raced out of the garden, her bare feet pounding the grass.

Lizzie followed more slowly. You are like Mister Clay. The child’s comment rang in her mind. Perhaps in that one way, she and Clay were alike. And in their shared fondness for the children. But in every other way? She envisioned his hair, the rich brown of a cattail’s skin threaded with strands of autumn gold—thick, curling hair that lifted at his collar and around his ears, so different from the black, straight hair of the Gwich’in. His skin had tanned brown under the sun, closely matching her own tawny color, but she’d glimpsed his throat when his top shirt button opened. Underneath, he was white.

And he persisted in placing his trust in an invisible God who resided somewhere above the clouds. A God he called Father. At each visit, he shared from a black book supposedly written by this unseen God, his face fervent as he did his utmost to convince her she was loved, wanted, by his Father God who could be hers, too, if only she asked Him to be.

Lizzie shook her head, blowing out a little breath of scornful disbelief. On the outside, she and Clay were different. And deep underneath, in their hearts, they were very, very different.

She paused in her trek across the yard and examined the back of her hand. One would never guess she carried the white blood of her father or her great-great-grandfather. Her mother’s blood ran deeper, stronger, and colored her all the way to the surface. She rubbed her skin, but the color remained. Brown. Always brown.

Scuffing forward again, she allowed her thoughts to look into the future. If she joined with a white man—a likely happening when she entered her father’s world—would her children carry the dark skin of her mother’s people, or would they be gifted with their father’s paler hue? How she hoped the pure white of their father’s heritage might wash out the muddied blood of her mixed heritage, resulting in white-skinned children. If they showed white on the outside, no one would look at them with derision. White meant acceptance.

Inside the cabin, she found Naibi and Etu busily setting plates, cups, and spoons on the table in readiness for their noonday meal. They laughed together, their round faces beaming and dark eyes sparkling. Their obvious cheerfulness raised a coil of envy. She reminded herself she, too, would experience unfettered bliss when her father welcomed her into his house.

Her time in the garden had proven the vegetables neared their time of harvest. Which meant Lizzie’s moment of joy waited just around the bend. Her heart pattered with hope. But then a grim reminder chased the patter away. How could she feel truly joyful unless she fulfilled her mother’s wish for reconciliation with her grandparents? Her shoulders sagged in defeat. It would be wiser to simply accept that joy did not exist for her—not here, and not with her father.





Vivian sank into the delightful softness of the hotel’s featherbed and released a sigh of pleasure. Her week of train travel and sleeping in a hard berth had created a permanent ache in her lower spine. From Fairbanks, through Canada, the American Northwest, and then to Carson City, Nevada, she’d traveled steadily south. And tomorrow she would begin her eastward trek across the vast United States to Massachusetts and Aunt Vesta. But tonight—for one glorious night—she would savor a hotel room, a bath, and the luxury of a bed.

She fingered the paper money wired to the hotel by her dear aunt, grateful for the security it provided. The telegram accompanying the packet of cash had included an outline of her carefully laid itinerary and tickets for every remaining leg of the journey. Vivian returned the money to the same little pocket in her reticule that held the tickets, whispering a silent prayer of gratitude for her aunt’s diligent planning. She had merely to follow the directions at each depot, and in a little over two weeks, she’d be under the roof of Aunt Vesta and Uncle Matthew’s stately townhouse.

As much as she anticipated reuniting with her aunt and uncle, she couldn’t cast off the cloak of regret that had fallen over her from the moment she’d made the decision to leave Alaska. Were the villagers recovered from the bout of sickness? Had any of them succumbed to the fever? And Clay—was he keeping a careful watch over Etu and Naibi? Had he completed the mission so he could begin the ministry of his heart? Was he visiting Lizzie, as she’d requested, so the native woman wouldn’t feel so alone? So many questions—and no way to find answers.

She pushed off the bed and crossed to the window. She looked out at a busy city scene. Just gazing at the dusty, crowded streets filled with various conveyances and people bustling here and there made her feel hemmed in. She missed the openness of the Alaskan wilderness, the slower pace of the natives who resided in the quiet village. Her brow puckered in confusion. How had only a few short weeks created such a change within her? She would never have imagined the city stifling her. She’d need to adjust her thinking before she reached Hampshire County.

“The amenities of Huntington are preferable to the rugged conditions in Gwichyaa Saa,” she reminded herself, her fingertips on the glass as she peered outward. “I shall have opportunities to visit the opera hall, engage in delightful teas with Aunt Vesta and her friends, and partake of carriage rides with the other young people. . . .” She shifted slightly, gaining a better view of a passing horse-drawn, well-fringed surrey. A whiff of her own musty body odor reached her nose, and she grimaced. “And I shall enjoy the convenience of indoor plumbing.”

She whirled from the window and charged to her valise. After withdrawing a clean gown and the other items necessary for bathing, she stepped into the hallway. A bathing room specifically for female guests waited at the far end. When she’d checked it earlier, someone else was making use of it. But surely by now the woman would have left and Vivian could enjoy a leisurely soak. Her skin prickled in anticipation. Vivian attempted to turn the knob.

“Occupied!” A frantic voice screeched from behind the closed door.

Vivian tipped her face close to the raised-panel door. “Will you be much longer?”

“Five minutes.” The reply carried over the sounds of splashing.

Vivian leaned against the wall with her belongings draped over her arm, determined to remain beside the door so she could enter the moment the other woman vacated the room. Guests milled up and down the hallway on their way to their rooms or to the dining room on the main floor. She nodded and smiled when they greeted her, all the while battling embarrassment at her disheveled, travel-weary appearance. But not responding would be impolite. If only the woman inside the bathing room would hurry!

A middle-aged gentleman came up the stairs and ambled toward her. He stopped and tipped his fashionable black bowler, offering a broad grin. “Hello, miss.”

Vivian hugged her clean clothing to her ribs. The man, attired in a fancy pinstriped suit and sporting a neatly trimmed mustache, oozed charm and sophistication. How slovenly she must appear in comparison. “H-hello.”

“I believe I saw you at the train station earlier this afternoon.” He glanced up and down the hallway, his thick brows briefly dipping. “You’re traveling alone?”

Was it wise to acknowledge her lack of chaperonage? Vivian bit down on her lip, uncertainty holding her silent.

He must have guessed the reason for her hesitation, because he chuckled lightly. “Now, now, I’m giving the wrong impression. Believe me, my query is entirely chivalrous.” His smile broadened. “I have a daughter, Mathilda Rose, who is the apple of my eye. She’s near your age. In fact, you remind me of her with your green eyes and heart-shaped face.” He sighed, shaking his head in a rueful manner. “I’m afraid my fatherly inclinations aren’t easily squelched.”

Vivian couldn’t resist displaying a grin. How sweet for him to be concerned about her. “Where is she?”

“Home in Ely with her mother. I’ll be joining them tomorrow now that my business dealings are complete.” He sighed again. “I’ve spent the past two weeks in San Francisco, overseeing the sale of a client’s business. Such a tiresome activity! I’m very ready to be home again.” Planting his feet wide, he slipped his hands into his jacket pockets. “And you, young lady? Are you heading home, too?”

Vivian opened her mouth to heartily agree, but for some reason the statement didn’t leave her lips. She’d always considered her aunt and uncle’s home her own. Why, then, did an image of Gwichyaa Saa fill her mind’s eye? She replied, “I’m going to visit relatives.”

“So you’ve left your home behind,” he mused.

Vivian swallowed a knot of sadness. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, then, I wish you safe travels, an enjoyable time with your relatives, and a speedy return to your home.”

Even though his final wish would not be fulfilled, Vivian smiled. “Th-thank you, sir.”

“I believe I’ll retire now. The train leaves early tomorrow morning.” He reached beneath his jacket and withdrew a folded newspaper. “Might you enjoy reading this before you turn in? It’s already a week old, but—”

“Oh yes, please!” Vivian reached eagerly for the paper. Living in the village, she’d fallen woefully out of touch with happenings in the country. Perhaps reabsorbing herself in newsworthy events might help her feel at ease in the city again. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re quite welcome. Good night now, young lady.” He touched the brim of his hat again, offered a dapper bow, and strode down the hallway.

The doorknob squeaked, and a plump woman with frizzy hair sticking out from beneath a ruffled mob cap stepped from the steamy bathing room. “There you are. I gave the tub a quick rinse. There’s plenty of hot water—enjoy.” The woman bustled around the corner and slammed herself into a room.

Vivian darted into the bathroom. She turned the brass spigots as high as they would go, smiling at the musical spatter of water against the tub’s cast-iron bottom. She dropped her dirty clothes in a heap and stepped into the tub. When the water reached a mere six inches from the tub’s rolled rim, she twisted the spigots to the off position and eased against the sloped back. Hot water lapped all the way to her chin. She closed her eyes, releasing a long sigh. Luxury, pure luxury.

She’d placed the newspaper on a nearby table next to her folded nightclothes. Wouldn’t it be pleasant to read while soaking? Her heels squeaked against the tub’s surface as she raised herself up to grab the paper. Holding the pages well above the water, she reclined and read every article on the front page.

The paper grew damp from the steam, and Vivian considered laying it aside rather than ruining it. One more page, she decided. Exercising great care, she turned to the second page and, immediately, an article caught her attention: WELL-RESPECTED BUSINESSMAN VOSS EDWARD DAWSON KILLED IN ROBBERY ATTEMPT. How sad, came the automatic thought. Angling the paper to better catch the light, she began to read.

Suddenly she gasped, sitting upright. Water splashed the pages and cascaded over the edge of the tub. She tossed the paper aside and clambered out, grabbing up a towel to mop the floor before water dripped to the room below. Assured she’d dried the floor as best she could, she draped the towel over the tub’s rolled rim and stared at the crumpled paper lying open on the floor at her feet.

Her pulse pounded as she located the line that had nearly stilled her heartbeat: “Mr. Dawson began Dawson Industries with wealth gained from fur trapping on the Alaskan frontier. . . .”