When the Meadow Blooms

Ann H. Gabhart

• Publisher: Revell
• Year: 2022
• eBook ISBN:
  9781493436200
• Print ISBN:
  9780800737221

If any place on God's earth was designed to help one heal, it is Meadowland. Surely here, at her brother-in-law's Kentucky farm, Rose and her daughters can recover from the events of the recent past--the loss of her husband during the 1918 influenza epidemic, her struggle with tuberculosis that required a stay at a sanatorium, and her girls' experience in an orphanage during her illness. At Meadowland, hope blooms as their past troubles become rich soil in which their faith can grow.

Dirk Meadows may have opened his home to his late brother's widow and her girls, but he keeps his heart tightly closed. The roots of his pain run deep, and the evidence of it is written across his face. Badly scarred by a fire and abandoned by the woman he loved, Dirk fiercely guards his heart from being hurt again. But it may be that his visitors will bring light back into his world and unlock the secret to true healing.

Bestselling author Ann H. Gabhart explores the tender places within the human heart in this character-driven story of trusting God to turn our burdens into something beautiful.

***

"Gabhart shines in crafting protagonists who exude quiet strength and optimism in search of wholeness. With its pastoral setting and reflective characters, this cozy read explores the uncertainty present in every new beginning."--Booklist

"When the Meadow Blooms is a touching, wholesome story about second chances and the possibility we all have for growth."--Manhattan Book Review

1

FEBRUARY 27, 1925

“You will never be completely well. Tuberculosis leaves its mark on your lungs.”

“I know, Doctor.” Rose Meadows looked at Dr. Bess Halvechs across the desk from her. “But I am so much better. I’ve been walking about the grounds and manage the stairs to the dining room instead of eating in my room.”

“Yes.” Dr. Bess’s forehead wrinkled in a frown. The doctor was devoted to her patients at Rest Haven Sanitarium and worked tirelessly to help them keep breathing. “You have made progress, Rose. Excellent progress, but as you know from your time here, relapses do occur. Even if that doesn’t happen, you will continually struggle with some aspects of the disease.”

Rose didn’t argue with the truth of the doctor’s words, but she didn’t have to be cured. She merely had to be well enough to leave the sanitarium and go get her daughters. “I have accepted that, but with care, I can manage.”

“With care.” The doctor fingered the stethoscope that hung around her neck as though she might get up and come around the desk to check Rose’s lungs right then. Dr. Bess was older than Rose, one of the first women to be accepted into a medical school. “Those are the words we must consider. With care. Do you have someone willing to give you that care?”

Rose met the doctor’s eyes. “My oldest daughter will be fifteen next month. Old enough to help.” Her care wasn’t something she wanted to thrust on Calla, but the need to be with her two girls again burned a hole in her heart. She hadn’t seen them for almost two years.

“But how will you survive, dear Rose? Do you plan to hire your daughter out to bring in money?”

“Hire her out?” Rose shrank from the thought. She couldn’t imagine sending Calla off to a factory job or to be a maid. “No, no. She can help me fashion hats. And there’s my husband’s army pension.”

“A paltry amount, I fear. Not enough for rent and food, and while you can still practice your milliner skills, you won’t have the strength to work steadily as you did in the past. Do you have family who might help you?”

“No.” Rose’s heart sank. “As I told you, my husband died during the influenza epidemic. My parents passed on years ago.”

“No sisters or brothers?”

“None living. A sister and brother died at a young age.”

“So many troubles in this day.” Dr. Bess clucked her tongue. “But, Rose, I cannot in good conscience release you unless you can give me some assurance that you will have a proper place to stay. You can’t live on the street or in some hovel where you would be exposed to the damp and not have the proper clean air and sunshine.”

“I’m well enough that my girls wouldn’t be at risk if I am with them. Isn’t that right?”

“Your sputum is negative, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t prone to a relapse.” She paused and studied Rose before she went on. “Stay with us a bit longer. Get stronger for those girls of yours.”

“But I think they need me now. I got a letter from Sienna. Something about it didn’t sound right.”

The letter was only a few lines. I am fine. My teacher is nice. I get enough to eat. I am learning to listen. It read like a school assignment, with sentences dictated by the teacher. The only part that seemed truly like Sienna was the tiny sketch of a bird for the dot above the i in her name and a drawing of a long-tailed mouse on the bottom of the page.

Sienna had been entranced by anything in nature since her first baby giggle at the sight of a butterfly. But it didn’t have to be something pretty to catch her eye. She liked spiders and once picked up a garter snake. When it bit her, she hadn’t cried. Instead, she gently put down the snake and apologized for scaring it.

“Sienna is the younger one, right? How old is she?” Dr. Bess asked.

“Nine,” Rose said.

Dr. Bess looked sympathetic. “At that age, she surely lacks letter-writing skills, don’t you think?” She waited for Rose’s nod and then went on. “Has your older daughter written to you about any problems?”

“No, but she might not if she thought it would upset me.” Calla’s last letter had only been a couple of paragraphs, the words stiff somehow, as though she had nothing good to write. “I just have the feeling something is wrong. Mothers have an innate sense about their children.”

“Of course they do. You do.” Dr. Bess stood up and came around the desk to touch Rose’s shoulder. “But your children need you well. Not sick. And worry will only make you worse. Your girls are being cared for at the orphanage. They will surely be fine for another month or so.”

“It’s been so long already.” The doctor being right didn’t make it any easier to accept.

“I know, but it’s best not to rush things. Let’s see how you’re doing in a few weeks.” Dr. Bess patted her shoulder. “Now run along and find a chair outside on the sun porch. Fresh air and sunshine are the best medicine we have.”

Rose did as she was told, even though every inch of her screamed to go pack her few belongings to leave. But reality kept poking her, bursting her balloon of hope. She had no car, no house, no way. When she’d left the girls at the Home for Girls, she’d thought it would be for a few weeks, no more than a couple of months, but the months had piled one on top of another.

She hadn’t gotten well. She’d gotten worse in spite of the bed rest and hours in the sun. The doctor warned her it would take time, but Rose hadn’t expected it to be a slow slog through mud. That was how it had felt. As if each movement was an effort she could barely make. For a while, she thought she wouldn’t fight through it, that the mud of tuberculosis in her lungs would swallow her. At one time, she was so worried she’d never see Calla and Sienna again that she wrote them each a final letter about how very much she loved them. The letters were still in the envelopes in her suitcase, ready if the need arose.

But now she was finally better. Still weak. Still with a cough but no streaks of blood in her sputum. Her hands trembled so that piecing together the hats she’d made for some of her fellow patients was a struggle, but she had finished the work.

She lengthened her stride as she went down the corridor toward the door that led out onto the porch. Her breath stayed even, surely a sign she was in remission. She was so pleased she wasn’t getting short of breath that she forgot to look away before she caught sight of herself in the mirror at the end of the hall. Why they left it there to mock the patients, or guests as they preferred to call them, she had no idea.

She hated that mirror. In her room a quick peek in the small wall mirror above the washstand was all that was needed to be sure her hair was combed. But this mirror blasted her whole reflection back at her. The first time she’d passed the mirror, she had looked behind her to see whose reflection it might be. As if some strange woman was beside her and her own image wasn’t there.

Since then, she always quickly turned away from the mirror, but today she stopped and stared at the frail woman staring back at her. Her cheeks were hollow and dark smudges circled her eyes. Gray streaked her honey-brown hair.

Could she really persuade Dr. Bess that she was ready to leave, ready to care for her daughters?

She sent up a prayer. Could she persuade herself that she was?

2

Sienna was in trouble again.

“Annie Meadows.”

Calla Meadows’s heart sank when the head of the orphanage called out her little sister’s name. Not Sienna’s real name but what those in control had decided to use when Sienna was considered an unfit name. A flower name, Calla’s mother said, the same as hers, but not common flowers. Daisy or Lily would have been fine. Even Iris was acceptable, but Sienna and Calla were too different.

The names made them stand out. They needed to fit in at the home. Conform. Sienna was changed to Annie and Calla to Callie. Calla didn’t care what they called her. Sienna didn’t either. That wasn’t why she didn’t answer.

“Annie Meadows.” Miss Warfield repeated in the tone that was not to be ignored. Her face was so stiff that moving her mouth enough to speak appeared ready to crack her cheeks.

Sienna didn’t respond.

Calla looked across at her sister. In the assembly room, the girls lined up by age. Calla, at fourteen, was with the older girls. Sienna, nine, stood with the middle group. She did not appear to hear the name she was expected to answer. Sienna wouldn’t be ignoring Miss Warfield on purpose. Instead, her mind had no doubt drifted off. She saw things no one else did. Cracks in the plaster might make her imagine a bird or perhaps an actual bug was climbing the wall. Any creature of nature could capture her full attention.

Sienna was slight, delicately slim. She often neglected to eat in the time allotted for their meals. Her white-blond hair curled around her face, and while Calla wasn’t near enough to see, she knew her light blue eyes would be calm as a still pool of water. That was what worried Calla most—that Sienna didn’t seem to care whether she was punished or not. She endured whatever they did to her.

She wouldn’t even know what she’d done to bring down Miss Warfield’s wrath on her. Most probably she had failed to pay attention to her teacher, Miss Agnes. In charge of the middle age group, the woman was not slow to report infractions to the headmistress.

Rules meant nothing to Sienna. Calla felt the same about the rules at Louisville’s West Side Home for Girls, but she followed them anyway. It was only for a little while until their mother came back for them. But the little while kept stretching into another week, another month, until now it had been almost two years. Her mother would come back for them. She’d promised and nothing would make her break that promise.

A finger of fear poked Calla’s heart. What if the treatment at the sanitarium didn’t cure her mother’s tuberculosis? Two other girls in her group were at the orphanage because their parents had died from that disease. Calla tamped down that fear. She’d gotten a letter from her mother a week ago. She said she was better. Improving. Not dying.

A little girl in the youngest group began crying. Calla wanted to wail along with her. Instead, a single tear slid out of her left eye down the side of her cheek. She dared not wipe it away to let anyone see. Miss Warfield had already given Calla a warning look. Not that Calla wouldn’t scream and disrupt the whole room if she thought that would shield her little sister from whatever was about to happen. But it wouldn’t. She’d tried in the past and ended up making things worse for Sienna.

Miss Gertrude, the one in charge of the older girls, must have noted the tear because she slipped over to Calla’s side and touched her arm. Not a warning tap, but a sympathetic one. Miss Gertrude did care about the girls under her care. If only Miss Agnes was as kind.

Miss Gertrude’s fingers trembled against Calla’s skin. Poor woman seemed every bit as terrified of Miss Warfield as the girls lined up around the room. The headmistress’s stare could make anyone’s blood run cold.

The woman took a menacing step toward Sienna, which must have pulled her away from her dreamy reverie. When she saw Miss Warfield towering over her, she smiled. Sincerely. But that may have been the worst thing she could have done at that moment.

Color rose on Miss Warfield’s neck. A sign every girl in the room knew was reason to beg for mercy. Every girl except Sienna, who continued to smile in the face of the storm descending on her.

“Were you calling me? I fear I forgot to listen as I should.” Sienna’s voice was musical, as if she might break into song.

The red spread into Miss Warfield’s cheeks. Her eyes had to be flashing sparks. The girls standing on either side of Sienna scooted away from her.

“Are you fey, child?” Miss Warfield’s voice whipped through the air.

Sienna’s smile faded. Then instead of being silent, which was the only response Miss Warfield expected, she said, “Is that the same as tetched in the head?” She didn’t seem concerned if it was. Nor did she wait for an answer from the headmistress. “If so, I don’t think I am. My mother told me I wasn’t and not to pay mind to anyone who said I was.”

“Your mother was wrong.” Miss Warfield spoke quietly, but that just made her sound more threatening.

The girls around Calla pulled in their breaths even though they were across the room from Miss Warfield. Miss Gertrude tightened her fingers on Calla’s arm.

Sienna didn’t back away from Miss Warfield. “My mama was not wrong.”

The woman held up her hand to stop her from saying more. “Your mother was no doubt glad to be shed of a strange child like you who doesn’t listen.”

“Fey sounds better than strange.” Sienna calmly stared up at Miss Warfield. “Are you going to hit me?” She sounded more curious than afraid.

“Rebellion cannot go unpunished.”

Calla jerked away from Miss Gertrude and stepped out of line. She couldn’t help it. No matter the cost, she couldn’t simply stand there without doing something. She ran across the room.

Miss Warfield didn’t look around at the sound of her approach. “You are not to interfere, Callie Meadows. Go back to your place.”

Calla didn’t obey. “Let me take the punishment for her. She is so small and she didn’t intend to not listen. She can’t help it.” She could almost feel the strap hitting her, but she could bear it.

Miss Warfield t...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Endorsements
• Half Title Page
• Books by Ann H. Gabhart
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Chapter 1
• Chapter 2
• Chapter 3
• Chapter 4
• Chapter 5
• Chapter 6
• Chapter 7
• Chapter 8
• Chapter 9
• Chapter 10
• Chapter 11
• Chapter 12
• Chapter 13
• Chapter 14
• Chapter 15
• Chapter 16
• Chapter 17
• Chapter 18
• Chapter 19
• Chapter 20
• Chapter 21
• Chapter 22
• Chapter 23
• Chapter 24
• Chapter 25
• Chapter 26
• Chapter 27
• Chapter 28
• Chapter 29
• Chapter 30
• Chapter 31
• Chapter 32
• Chapter 33
• Chapter 34
• Chapter 35
• Chapter 36
• Sneak Peek at Another Historical Romance by Ann H. Gabhart
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author
• Back Ads
• Back Cover