Seattle
Debutante Sofi Andersson will do everything in her power to protect her sister
who is suffering from shock over their father’s death. Charles, the family
busy-body, threatens to lock Trina in a sanatorium—a whitewashed term for an
insane asylum—so Sofi will rescue her little sister, even if it means running
away to the Cascade Mountains with only the new gardener Neil Macpherson to
protect them. But in a cabin high in the Cascades, Sofi begins to recognize
that the handsome immigrant from Ireland harbors secrets of his own. Can she
trust this man whose gentle manner brings such peace to her traumatized sister
and such tumult to her own emotions? And can Neil, the gardener, continue to
hide from Sofi that he is really Dr. Neil Galloway, a man wanted for murder by
the British police? Only an act of faith and love will bridge the distance that
separates lies from truth and safety.
Chapter One of Sofi’s
Bridge
Seattle
Washington, 1913
A blur of white raced along the grounds to the beach. Sofi froze at the second story window. Set against the tattered sky of an incoming squall, her sister’s nightgown billowed in the dark. For the past six weeks Trina kept as much distance as she could from the sight and sound of the surf. Sofi raised a shaking hand to her throat, turned and tore along the upper hall. “Mattie, she’s outside.”
China
shattered as Matilda, their housekeeper, dropped a supper tray. At the
staircase, Sofi hiked up her black silk skirts and pounded
downwards. Matilda followed close behind.
Ten
minutes ago Trina had been in the nursery, huddling on the window
seat. Though nearly grown she was always in the nursery since that night
when. . .Trina even slept in the nursery instead of her bedroom, crying for
Papa, with Sofi holding her close.
Matilda huffed. “I only left Trina to collect
her supper.”
A yelping
Odin found Sofi at the kitchen hallway. The Springer Spaniel bounded, his cold
nose nudging her hand. Thank goodness one thing in this house had stayed the
same. With Odin barking, she pushed through the green baize door. The dog
darted past her. Inga, their cook, swung around to face her. Frida,
the housemaid, dropped whatever she held in her hand. A man Sofi could
swear she’d never seen before sat at the table, and shot to his feet as she
hurtled through the kitchen.
She
reached the outer door when the man—the gardener, she remembered now—pushed
past her and flung the door wide. He charged across the lawn. The dog yowled
and leapt after him. With Inga, Frida, and Matilda running behind, Sofi fled in
the wake of the gardener down the trail to the beach.
The man
reached the sand. Odin bolted past, across the beach as Trina rushed along
the dock. Sofi scrambled to keep up, each ragged breath a
prayer. Matilda shrieked, and behind, Frida’s and Inga’s calls, “Trina!”
Sofi
reached the beach in time to see Trina slip into the skiff at the end of the
dock. Her sister pulled on the oars, and made swift progress out on Puget
Sound. At the edge of the dock, the dog pawed the planks, whining.
“Trina!”
The wind snatched her cries as Sofi tripped over the shore strewn with rocks
and driftwood. Dear God, please keep her safe. She had failed in looking
after her sister.
The gardener
reached the end of the thirty-foot dock and dove. It was hard to see anything
other than green phosphorous as he swam toward the small skiff. Cold brine
swirled at Sofi’s knees as she waded to the dock. She ran to the end of the
wooden planks. It should be her saving Trina. It was her job to look after her
family. Twenty yards out, Trina stood up in the skiff. Her nightgown
streamed in the wind, a white sail against the squalling night.
Sit down,
Trina. Oh, please sit down.
Swells
buffeted the small craft as Trina stood, peering into the depths. Sofi
cried out, but the wind swallowed her words, until a wave nudged the boat, and
Trina fell. Sofi screeched.
One
moment Trina was there, the next the sea had taken her. Just like Papa.
She
wrenched open the buttons of her bodice. She would not remain frozen, but get
out of this wretched gown and bring her sister out of the depths.
“No,
Sofi!” Matilda gripped her arm. “You’re not as strong a swimmer as Trina. She
has a better chance than you.”
She thrust
off Matilda’s hand. She couldn’t lose her sister. She’d swim in her petticoat
if need be. But Inga and Frida had made it to the end of the dock, and now
three sets of hands held Sofi, as the rising tempest droned. Captive, Sofi
counted the strokes of the man swimming to Trina. Then he dove, and the night
went quiet. Sofi couldn’t breathe. All that she’d kept dammed up
since Papa’s death cascaded over her.
Waves
pummeled the pilings and beach. Odin whimpered at her knee. A moment
later the gardener came up, gasped for air and dove again. Sofi pressed
the heel of her hand against her tight chest. Dear God, don’t take her from
me.
At last
the waters broke. The gardener surfaced with Trina coughing in his
arms. Pins and needles flared over Sofi’s skin. At last, she could do
something. She reached for the life ring, tossing it to the man. It landed on
the waves near his head. Trina batted at him, and he ducked beneath her.
Seconds passed. He emerged to take hold of the life ring. He kicked, towing Trina
with his arm across her chest. Until he lost his grip on the ring.
The wind
and waves flailed at him and Trina. Hand over hand, Sofi pulled in the
rope, and threw the ring out again.He caught it. The tide fought to drag
him and Trina, but with Frida’s help, Sofi hauled them in.
As they
neared the dock, Sofi and the women reached down to lift Trina from the waves.
Sofi pressed on her sister’s back to expel the water she’d taken in.The man
hoisted himself to the dock. Dripping wet, he pushed Sofi away, and rolled
Trina on her back.
“What are
you doing?” She slapped his hands. If anyone would take life-preserving
measures it would be her.
But he
shoved her and pried Trina’s mouth open. After searching her mouth and throat,
he flipped Trina on her front and thumped her back.
A moment
later, Trina coughed and spat, and the man stood, leaning down to lift Trina
into his arms
Sofi gave
him a shove. “I’ll carry her.”
“Don’t be
foolish, miss.”
“You
can’t possibly carry her up to the house after that swim. We’ll carry her
together.”
He swiped
his wet hair out of his eyes. “It’ll be quicker if I carry her. She’s worn out
and she needs—” He scooped Trina up.
“Please...hurry.”
Sofi turned and ordered Matilda. “Water on to boil. Get blankets.” Buffeted by
the wind, Sofi walked beside him as he carried Trina up the incline with the
squall whistling.
He kept
his gaze on the lights shining across the lawns from the kitchen. She kept
turning to watch the rise and fall of her sister’s chest, those pale eyelids
that remained closed, that long blond hair straggling like seaweed over the
bodice of the white nightgown.
When they
reached the kitchen stoop, Trina opened her eyes and looked at the man holding
her. Sofi gasped. For a moment a spark of the real
Trina—sixteen-year-old Trina—shone in the depths of her blue eyes.
Inside
the kitchen was a warm hive of activity. The gardener settled a shivering Trina
in Inga’s armchair next to the stove.
“A towel,”
Sofi said to Frida. She dried Trina’s arms and legs, and wrapped her in a quilt
as Matilda barged in with dry clothing.
Kneeling
before her sister, she’d been prepared to take charge, have the man fade to the
background as a servant of his standing should, but just as he’d done on the
dock, he pushed her away. Ignoring his dripping clothes, he leaned close,
listening to Trina’s breathing.
And Trina
latched her blue gaze with his. In rigid silence, Sofi stood.
Matilda
pierced her with a look that asked if she’d lost her mind. Sofi put a hand
to her head. Was it giddiness at Trina being alive that sapped her of her usual
verve? No. There was something about this man that calmed her sister like none
of them had been able to do for weeks.
“Take
your hands off her, ye shameless oaf,” Matilda shouted. She’d cared for Trina
since she’d been a baby as if she’d been her own.
The
gardener fended her off with a pained look. “Matilda, do you honestly think I’d
want to hurt her?” He took hold of Trina’s wrist, as if he counted her pulse,
and hunched down to examine her feet. Rocks on the beach had gashed the inside
of one arch. With a tea towel, he wiped away a trace of blood.
Sofi
reached out to help, but Trina shirked from her, and focused on the fire
burning in the grate.
Inga,
Frida, and Matilda began to talk at once while Sofi stood aside, alone in the
eye of the storm. It wasn’t that Trina rejected her help—she was getting used
to being rebuffed by her young sister lately. But this stranger had taken control.
Frida and
Inga submitted to his orders as if they’d known him for years instead of a
month. Even the dog sat, his tail thumping as he shifted his gaze between the
gardener and Trina.
Only
Matilda eyed the man as though he were a hooligan. The desire to cry crept up
on Sofi, but she shoved it deep. She must be exhausted from carrying the weight
of what was left of her family, to let him take charge. Everything had changed
since Papa’s death. She spoke to the man in a level tone. “You’ll need iodine.
Bandages.”
“Hot
water too.” He smiled his thanks when she brought him the basin. “She’ll be
fine, stop your worrying.” His voice flowed in rhythmic Irish cadence.
With a
calm Sofi did not feel, she retrieved the tin box, opened the bottle of iodine
while Matilda ripped a clean white cloth into strips. Sofi would let him see to
Trina’s superficial abrasions. He obviously had first aid training. But more
than simple medicine was needed to heal her sister’s mind and heart. To
think...only a few months ago Trina had been at the yacht club, laughing,
challenging the young men to a race. Her sister’s teeth chattered. But her gaze
was more clear than since the day they’d brought her home without Papa. “Leave
me...alone. It’s my…”
The man’s
eyes crinkled with a smile. “You’re all right. Your few wee cuts and bruises
don’t worry me at all.”
Trina
moaned as her shivering eased, and pulled the quilt around her. Then that heavy
curtain came down behind her eyes. It seemed she grew smaller, shrinking away
from them all. At least Trina was safe for now. Sofi pressed a hand to her
stomach.
A frown
replaced the gardener’s smile as he scrutinized Trina. “Is any tea ready? She
needs a cup. With plenty of sugar and milk.” He cupped Trina’s chin, but she
avoided his eyes. “It’ll do you good,” he murmured, “whether or not you want to
talk to me.” His brows creased at Trina’s lack of response, and he cupped her
shoulder. “You’ll be fine, so I’m handing you over to Matilda’s care before she
tears me limb from limb.” His smile matched the lilt in his voice.
Matilda
needed no further encouragement. She, Frida and Inga, began to cluck over their
one chick, Matilda’s Scottish ‘R’s rolling, the two other women elongating
their Swedish vowels.
For now,
Sofi would leave Trina in their capable hands. Her sister was locked away
in one of her moods. Later, tonight, Trina would need her. Setting her
jaw, Sofi studied the gardener in an attempt to remember his name. She and this
man had hardly spoken until tonight. Inga laid out his duties from the
time he arrived on their grounds just days before Papa...
Emptiness
swelled inside. With Papa’s drowning so shortly after this man started to work
for them, she’d not had the heart to get to know him. She dammed up the
memories of her father again, before grief sluiced through her—a grief she had
no time to indulge. Not now when Trina needed her so much. And Mama too.
This
gardener’s name was...Neil Macpherson. And his manner, his confidence...too
controlled to be a mere laborer. His abilities hinted at some training, but he
was still the gardener. A man who thought he knew what was best, as Charles
thought. But then Charles, as Papa’s business partner, always thought he knew
best.
Her voice
shook. “You’re quite handy at first aid, Mr. Macpherson.”
“Sure
anyone could do this. Even me, hired to trim the grass and prune the shrubs.”
He flinched, so slight, she almost missed it.
Matilda
held a cup of tea to Trina’s lips. Trina sipped and leaned her head
against the back of the chair, her eyelids drooping.
Sofi felt
Neil Macpherson’s gaze. “You don’t look so well yourself, miss. Take that cuppa
that Frida’s bringing you.”
She
rubbed her arms, and shook her head. Her soaking clothes clung. Weariness of
heart must be spurring this unfamiliar perversity within her. This need to
fight, to protect Trina and Mama.
“Well, if
it’s not a cup of tea you want,” he said, “then perhaps coffee, as long as it
has plenty of sugar to counteract the shock.” He led her away from Trina, and
for a second she wanted to lean against him, like Mama used to lean against
Papa.
But this
was her family. She must rally herself.
“It’s
plain your sister’s suffering from a prolonged sense of trauma,” he said,
lowering his voice.
“It’s
nothing more than a nervous malady.”
His brow
winged upward. “It’s far more than that. She needs help.”
She
turned away from his all-too-inquisitive eyes. Of course, her sister needed
help.
Trina
just didn’t need the kind of help Charles was suggesting.
Inga and
Frida whisked away the first aid materials, and Matilda raced upstairs for an
item of Trina’s clothing she’d forgotten. Sofi hunched down in front of
Trina. She traced a finger down her sister’s cheekbone, along the delicate line
of jaw. She turned the young face toward her only to be met by Trina’s vacant
stare. Sofi choked back a sob. “Where are you, älskling? Where are you?”
No response came from Papa’s favorite
endearment. And really, there was no need for Sofi to ask. She knew exactly where the
soul of her sister lay. Six weeks ago, it floated downward with Papa’s body to
the dark and sandy bottom of the Juan de Fuca Strait.
What the
gardener said was true. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that her sister
suffered from trauma, but there had to be a way to bring her sister back to
health other than what Charles was arranging.
Neil
Macpherson’s officious manner wasn’t what angered her. As a simple laborer, he
must only mean well.
But as for Charles...she would
fight him with everything she had before she’d allow her sister to go to a
hospital for the mentally insane.
Irish-born Christine Lindsay is the author of
multi-award-winning Christian fiction and non-fiction. Readers describe her
writing as gritty yet tender, realistic yet larger than life, with historical
detail that collides into the heart of psychological and relationship drama.
Christine's fictional novels have garnered the ACFW Genesis Award, The Grace
Award, Canada’s The Word Guild Award, and was a finalist twice for Readers’
Favorite as well as 2nd place in RWA’s Faith Hope and Love
contest.
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Bridge
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Christine, thanks for joining me today and sharing your first chapter of Sofi's Bridge with my readers! God's best to you in your writing venture!
