Edge of the Wilderness

Eighteen


[Love] . . . seeketh not her own.”

—1 Corinthians 13:5

December 18, 1864

St. Louis, Missouri

Dear Miss Williams,

I have just returned from an extended trip abroad. How it is that of all my acquaintances in St. Louis, no one would have informed me of your notices in the newspaper, I cannot say. However, it appears that you may have my niece and nephew, Rebecca and Timothy Sutton, in your care.

Perhaps some family history is appropriate. My sister Felicia and I were twins. I regret to say that we caused our departed parents a great deal of stress for many reasons, not the least of which was their complete inability to understand the rather intense religious conversion Felicia and I experienced in our early twenties. Further difficulties arose when neither of us fulfilled our parents’ plans for our lives. They never forgave Felicia for marrying Philip Sutton against their wishes. When Felicia and Philip moved to the frontier, the estrangement worsened.

When I met and married my Richard, it was the final blow to our parents. They never accepted our marriages to men who would not be bullied into submission—men who shared Felicia’s and my commitment to personal Christianity. When both Richard and Philip staunchly maintained their own ideas of leadership and independence, when it became clear that we would not be living the life of ease our parents had provided, we were virtually disowned.

Once my husband, Richard, and I went abroad, Felicia and I were able to exchange a few letters. I even have a photograph or two of Rebecca and Timothy.

Felicia’s letters stopped abruptly at the end of 1862. My mother and father did inform me of Felicia’s and Philip’s deaths, which were a great shock to my parents, who were in ill health. I think they were terribly grieved by their obstinate behavior. In a letter to me after Felicia’s death, my mother sounded truly brokenhearted. While we were able to mend our relationship, both my parents succumbed to old age and illness within a few weeks of one another at the beginning of last year. I was indisposed at the time of their death and unable to make the long journey home to see to their affairs.

My husband and I have at last returned to St. Louis. Upon going through my parents’ papers (their house was closed up and has awaited my return for the finalization of business and estate matters), Richard and I became aware that the fate of Felicia’s children was not exactly known. We are unhappily childless, Miss Williams, and the prospect of finding Felicia’s children has ignited a flame of hope in our hearts that words are insufficient to relay. To think that our prayers for children may soon be answered is almost more than we can believe.

I enclose a photograph of myself and Richard. While my very human desire is to rush to St. Anthony and throw myself at Rebecca and Timothy, Richard has convinced me that we should pray and wait upon your wisdom as to how best to introduce them to the idea of a new family. Timothy is too young to remember me, but Rebecca might have a glimmer of recognition if you mention the lady who used to send the oranges. (I managed to have a crate or two delivered to the frontier.)

I am certain the children have become attached to you, and I am most concerned that after all they have endured, they be spared any more pain if at all possible. Not being familiar with your situation, I hesitate to request this, but I wonder if you would be able to consider traveling with them to St. Louis? We would be happy to provide your passage and a salary as their nurse until the children have made the adjustment to their new home.

No amount of money could possibly repay you for what you have done, Miss Williams, but we hope that the enclosed will in some measure assure you of our heartfelt gratitude and our goodwill. We also offer a letter from our dear Pastor Irvine as a sort of “recommendation” regarding our character and suitability as parents. We eagerly await your response.

Most Sincerely,

Fanny & Richard Laclede

Miss Jane Williams waited, her hands clenched, while Gen and Nina Whitney sat at the kitchen table leaning over the letter.

Gen held up a check. “It’s for a thousand dollars,” she said in disbelief.

“I know,” Miss Jane said. “Go ahead and read what Pastor Irvine says about them.”

After reading the letter, Nina said softly, “They sound too good to be true.”

“Yes,” Miss Jane said. She sat down abruptly. “It’s wonderful, don’t you think?” She looked from Gen to Nina before hiding her face in her hands and bursting into tears.

Gen put her arm around Miss Jane.

Miss Jane accepted Nina’s offered handkerchief and cried for a few moments before wiping her eyes and saying, “I—I’ve been praying for guidance. I’ve felt so at loose ends. I’ve felt almost trapped, and then guilty for feeling that way when Rebecca and Timothy need me. I’ve spent more nights than I care to admit pacing around my room, wishing I could return to the mission work, trying to be content if I don’t. And now, the Lord seems to be making the very thing I want possible and I dissolve in a puddle. Honestly!”

Nina spread the letter on the table and reread a few passages. “They sound like sincere Christians. And they are obviously well off.” She looked up. “What are you going to do?”

“Tell Rebecca and Timothy, of course.” Miss Jane took a deep breath. “It will help immensely if Rebecca has some memory of the oranges. It would at least be a connecting point.”

She pushed herself away from the table. Standing up, she balled Nina’s handkerchief into the palm of one hand. “I don’t see any reason to put this off.” And she headed up the back stairs to Rebecca’s room.



Rebecca Sutton had more than a vague memory of a woman sending oranges to her parents’ farm. “Mama talked about Aunt Fanny all the time,” Rebecca said. “She has dark, dark hair and eyes, just like Mama did. She married Richard and they went away to France. And they were very happy. We had their picture in an album that Mama kept in the bedroom.” She frowned. “But the Indians tore it all up when they killed Mama and Papa.” Her expression changed and she murmured, “I guess it burned up in the fire.” She looked at Miss Jane. “They burned lots of our things after they took Timothy and me. They made us watch.” Something glimmered in her eyes, and almost as if a switch had been turned, she changed the subject. “Mama said Aunt Fanny was the first one to learn to read, and the first one to say she loved Jesus. And she taught Mama to sing the doxology. They used to put on plays in the attic together . . .”

“Well,” Miss Jane said quietly, “I’m glad to see you remember so much, because your Aunt Fanny wants you and Timothy to come live with her in St. Louis.”

The two children looked at one another. After a moment of silence, Timothy frowned and said, “Don’t you want us Auntie Jane?”

Miss Jane suppressed a sob. She hugged Timothy. “Oh, you dear boy. Of course I want you. But I’m just a poor spinster. Your aunt and uncle have been very sad for a long time because God hasn’t given them any babies.”

“God hasn’t given you any babies, either,” Timothy said abruptly. “If we go away, you’ll be all alone.”

Rebecca gave her brother a little shove. “You have to be married to get babies, Timothy. And anyway, when Miss Jane goes back to the mission she’ll have lots of Dakota children to love.” Rebecca looked up at Jane. “Isn’t that right, Aunt Jane?”

Jane nodded. “I’ve been asking God to show me what I should do. Not just about you dear children, but about many, many things. And I think if He gives you a wonderful new home in St. Louis, perhaps that means I am supposed to return to the reservation and teach again.”

“What if we don’t like St. Louis?” Rebecca asked abruptly.

“I think you will like it very much,” Miss Jane said quickly. “I’ll be coming with you to make certain.”

“You’re coming too?” Timothy asked.

Miss Jane nodded. “Just to help you get settled.”

Rebecca and Timothy sat side by side on the edge of Timothy’s bed, thinking. Finally, Rebecca looked up. “I’d like to meet Aunt Fanny,” she said with confidence. “Mama always said I’d like her a lot. She didn’t say too much about Uncle Richard. But we’ll try him, too.” She hesitated before adding, “I’ve been worried you would go back to the Indians and take us there.” Her voice lowered a moment as she said, “Please don’t be mad at me, Aunt Jane, but—I don’t want to go back to the Indians.” She shivered. “I’d be scared all the time.”

Miss Jane knelt down and put her arms around both children. “Thank you for telling me that, Rebecca. I’m sorry you’ve been worried.” She cupped Rebecca’s chin in her palm and touched her nose. “I’ll go right to the telegraph office and let your aunt and uncle know that we want them to come as soon as possible.”

The children bounded off the bed and out into the hall. Rebecca hurried downstairs to tell Meg and Aaron the news. Timothy followed, obviously deep in thought. At the top of the stairs, he turned around. His dark eyes flashed as he said, “If I don’t like St. Louis, I’ll come find you. They won’t stop me. I won’t be afraid of the Indians, and I won’t let them stop me!”

“If you don’t like your new home, Timothy,” Miss Jane said solemnly, “I will personally come and get you.”

“Promise?”

Miss Jane nodded. “Absolutely.”

With that, Timothy followed his sister downstairs. Miss Jane donned her wrap and hat. By the time she reached the telegraph office, she had almost stopped crying. She told herself on the way back to the Whitneys’ that the tears were tears of joy. Over the next few days, she said it often enough that she began to believe it.