Master's Match Read online

  Copyright

  ISBN 978-1-60260-517-6

  Copyright © 2009 by Tamela Hancock Murray. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 721, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  All the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  Prologue

  Providence, Rhode Island

  1838

  Ten-year-old Becca Hanham could not go home until she sold enough lucifers to buy bread. She pulled a ragged shawl around her tiny shoulders, but the motion did little to ward off the cold of a December evening in Providence. Standing by the tavern, she heard piano music, laughter, and singing from within. No wonder each night Father escaped to the light and warmth of such a place. At home Mother always looked sad, and Becca’s brothers and sisters filled their cramped rented rooms with yelling and crying. Still, Becca yearned to go back. Whistling wind bit her bare legs.

  She peered down the familiar street of Providence, hoping for customers. At the first cross street, a tall man wearing a stylish hat and unblemished outer coat walked alongside a woman donned in a fur-trimmed cape. Looking into each other’s eyes, they laughed and talked as they approached.

  What would it be like to be so happy? Becca wondered.

  Soon the couple drew close enough to hear her. “Lucifers, sir?” Her hand shivered as she held the matches out to him.

  He shook his head.

  Knowing better than to pose her question to the lady, Becca set her gaze on the street and returned the lucifers to the small reed basket hanging from the crook of her arm.

  “The poor little thing,” she heard the woman mutter as they kept strolling. “Oh, Thomas, can’t you buy some to help her? Your servants tend many fireplaces at your estate.”

  “You are too kindhearted, Elizabeth. If I bought goods from every street urchin, I’d soon be living alongside them. And so would you, after we’re wed. You wouldn’t want that, would you?” Even his thick topcoat didn’t hide a shudder.

  The woman glimpsed back at Becca. “No, I suppose not.”

  The first time Becca had heard similar observations, she felt a bite deeper than the cold, but since then she had grown too resilient to let such comments bother her. Why should anyone want to change places with her? A quick look at her reflection in a dark window confirmed that a washed face and clean clothes couldn’t conceal her ragamuffin status.

  Another couple, this time appearing to be mother and son, approached. Becca held out her wares and offered them for sale, but they kept their gazes from touching her.

  The little girl fought discouragement. If I can sell but a few more, I’ll have enough money. Oh, it is so cold! Father in heaven, please send me a buyer soon. She peered at the matches in her basket. If only there were a fireplace with blazing logs nearby. Then she could keep warm. But the nearest fireplace burned in the tavern, and children weren’t welcome there. Thoughts of lighting a lucifer on a cobblestone visited her, but such a tiny flame wouldn’t keep her warm long. Why, it would hardly warm her at all. How many times had Mother told her not to light matches since any she used would eat into their profit?

  So cold. So cold.

  With no one in sight, she couldn’t resist. She had to light one. Kneeling to reach the cobblestone, she struck it hard against the surface, inhaling the strong odor of sulfur. How terrible hell must be if the doomed must smell sulfur forever. She shook. Still, the warmth against her palms helped, if only for a moment. She let the stick burn as long as she could before dropping it. Then there was no light and no warmth.

  Dismal thoughts of the condemned left as she spotted a young man, just in his teens, rushing up the street toward her. His face looked the way she imagined young David’s in the Bible—the courageous youth who beat a giant with a mere sling. Mother described him as comely. To Becca’s eyes, that adjective fit the approaching figure. Her gaze took in his mode of dress. A stylish overcoat and fine leather boots told her he wasn’t a servant, and he was too young to worry about keeping a fire lit. Discouragement visited. He wouldn’t buy any lucifers. Still, she had to try.

  He had almost passed her before she summoned the courage ask, “Lucifers, sir?”

  To her shock, he stopped. Looking down at her, his brown eyes not only caught her gaze but filled with compassion. He nodded. “It’s terribly cold tonight. A girl like you shouldn’t be out.”

  A blush of embarrassment warmed her face but gave her no comfort. “My family needs to eat, young master.”

  “Of course. Well, we have lots of fireplaces at my house. Cook will be happy to see a new box of lucifers.”

  “A whole box, sir?” She tried not to gasp with happiness.

  “Yes.” He extended his gloved hand. “May I have the lucifers, please?”

  Wary, she nodded and handed them to him, then watched him place the container in his coat pocket. She prayed she hadn’t been duped, that as a joke he would run off with her wares without paying. If that happened, Father would whip her for sure. She swallowed.

  He remained in place and took off a black leather glove. She couldn’t help but wish she had gloves to cover her bare fingers. “Hold out your hands, please.”

  She extended one hand.

  He smiled. “No, both. If you will.”

  “Both?” Yet she complied.

  He reached into another pocket and withdrew a number of coins, then placed them in her open palms.

  She gasped, noting most were ten-cent coins. Never had she been so grateful to see an engraving of Lady Liberty with a star for each of the thirteen original colonies surrounding her image. “But this is too much, sir.”

  He slid his fine glove back over his hand. “Perhaps you might buy a pair of mittens.”

  She would never be permitted to spend money on herself but didn’t want to point out the fact. “Really, sir, I must charge only what’s fair.”

  “I don’t want any of it back. Please. Keep the money in the name of Christian charity.”

  Christian charity wasn’t unknown to her, but such generosity was, even in the name of Christ. She tried not to gasp. “Are—are ya sure?”

  “I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

  She’d never held so much money in her life. “Thank you, sir. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.” Clutching the money, she hurried to buy the bread so she could rush home and warm her toes by the fire.

  “Lord, I know that stranger didn’t need so many lucifers. He bought them out of mercy. I didn’t know there could be so much kindness—at least not for me,” she muttered. “I’m so glad he belongs to Thee. Please, keep him in Thy protection forever.”

  One

  1848

  “How much longer will that triflin’ Abby girl be gone? I’m hungry.” Father’s voice bellowed from the room he shared with his wife and the babies.

  Up to her elbows in dishwater, Becca shuddered. She recalled her days as the family’s match girl and Father’s wrath if she didn’t sell enough lucifers to keep the family fed. If only he could get his job back at the factory, but he loved the bottle more than any work, and even the most patient boss couldn’t afford her father’s drunkenness and absences. The brother who did manage to keep a factory job had wed, so his earnings supp
orted his wife and their new baby girl.

  What little income their household earned came from sporadic odd jobs she and her younger siblings could pick up now and again. Two older sisters had married as quickly as they could to escape and now had their own homes to manage. In the meantime Becca, now the oldest of the remaining siblings, spent her waking hours helping Mother with Becca’s brothers and sisters. One could almost set the calendar by the arrival of a new Hanham baby each year. With so many mouths to feed, they were forced to squeeze the most out of every cent.

  Wiping a dish without setting her mind to the task, she recalled that bitter evening so many years ago. Each day since then she had prayed for the safety of the young man who had bought lights from her when she was at her most desperate point. If he hadn’t shown her such mercy, she wondered how long she would have suffered in the unusually bitter and miserably cold night.

  “Becca!” Father’s voice punctured the air as he entered the front room that served as the kitchen and parlor.

  She let the semiclean dish fall back into the water and turned halfway toward him. “Yea, Father?”

  “Look at me when I speak to ya.” A tall figure, he appeared imposing even when he wasn’t in a foul mood.

  “Yes, Father.” Without stopping to swipe water from her hands, she faced him.

  “Where is that Abby girl?” He sat at the table, the burden of his weight causing the old pine chair, most of its varnish long worn off, to creak.

  “Little Abby? I’m sure she’s still out sellin’ lucifers, Father.” Becca looked outside. “It’s still mornin’. She has hours left. Oftentimes I had to sell well into the night, remember?”

  He grunted.

  “I just hope she doesn’t have to stay out too long today. This January weather chills to the bone.”

  “I doubt she’ll stay out all night like you did,” Father observed. “She’s a shirker, that’s what she is. Ya always brought in enough fer us.” He eyed a nearby pitcher. “Pour me some ale now.”

  She wanted to defend little Abby but knew that argument would do more harm than good and increase Father’s ill temper. Instead she remained agreeable and picked up the pitcher. “Yea, Father.”

  Poor Abby. Memories of how difficult being a match girl was flooded her, bringing her angst. As soon as Father swigged the portion of ale Becca poured, she returned to her dishes. At least the numbing drink would keep him occupied and quiet for a few dear moments.

  The next instant, Mother came back from errands, a tired expression on her face. When she entered, a blast of cold air followed her through the open door.

  “Shut the door, woman,” Father said. “It’s cold enough in here as it is.”

  Becca couldn’t argue that. In winter the house never felt warm enough.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Becca looked at the reed basket Mother used for groceries and realized it held precious little.

  “Where’s the food?” Father asked. “Seems like ya didn’t hardly bring us nothin’.”

  Setting the basket on the table, Mother apologized in a small voice. “I bought what I could with the pennies I had. Mr. Sloane says he won’t give us no more credit. We have to pay up our bill.”

  Father snarled and set down his mug with enough force to bang against the table. “Is that so? Why, I oughta go right there and give ’im some o’ this, I should.” He pounded his left fist into his open right palm.

  Mother rushed to his side and placed a restricting hand on his shoulder. “Please don’t. Not now. Especially not now with the new baby on the way.”

  Though the announcement didn’t come as a surprise, Becca suppressed a groan. She chastised herself for her feelings, but a new life would make things even harder for the family. “A–another baby? But Bennie is only three months old.”

  “Shut yer mouth, girl. A new baby’s a blessin’, I tell you, if it’s a boy.” Father puffed up his chest. “Soon the children I sire will be enough to fill all of Providence. I’m sure this new baby will be a healthy boy.”

  Thoughts of two lost siblings sent a wave of sadness through Becca. Obadiah had lived only a day after his birth. A passive little thing, he’d withered away and died. Why, they did not know. Five years ago another little boy, Manny, had been run over and killed by a horse when he was crossing the street trying to reach a customer wanting a newspaper. They lived in a dangerous world, and only cautious children with strong constitutions survived to adulthood. Becca prayed the new life in Mother’s womb was already endowed by God with both of those traits.

  “A baby’s a blessin’ whether a boy or girl.” Mother frowned. “But I hate bringin’ a new life into a place where there ain’t enough money to pay fer food. What will we do?”

  “I know what we can do.” Father set his gaze on his daughter. “Becca, ye’re a good worker. It’s past time fer ya to get a job that pays a wage.”

  Mother paled. “But what will I do? I need Becca here to help me.”

  “Enough, woman. Ya don’t need to be such a sloth. Time for ya to take on more work so we can feed this family.” Pride filled his voice. “Yea, it’s a good thing for a man to sire a brood o’ twenty and countin’.”

  Mother remained at Father’s side but turned her face to Becca. Wide eyes and a distressed line of her mouth told her she wanted help convincing Father that their daughter shouldn’t get a job.

  A fortifying breath gave Becca courage. “Father, I want to stay here and tend to me brothers and sisters.”

  “Enough of that. If ya don’t want to work in town, ya can always wed. At least then with ya married and out of the house, there’ll be one less mouth to feed. Just think o’ yer older sisters and brothers, all with husbands and wives of their own now. And with Deb havin’ a little one o’ her own soon, I’ll be a grandfather again. Six and countin’. Why don’t ya do me proud, too?” Father rubbed salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin and rocked his chair back against the wall. “Ya know, I’ve seen how Micah Judd looks at ya. Maybe the two o’ ya could make a go of it.”

  The image of a rotund, unkempt boy who couldn’t utter a thought without cursing came to mind. “That foul oaf?”

  How Father managed to look offended, she didn’t know. “He ain’t so bad now. What’s the matter? Think ya can do better—mebbe get a wealthy gentleman?” His laugh sounded ugly.

  “You might not believe me, but money ain’t me goal.”

  “And that’s a good thing, too, since there ain’t no money ’round this part o’ town.” Father chortled.

  Becca remained serious, facing her father as she leaned against the counter. “I don’t fancy Micah because he’s not a godly man. And I don’t love him.”

  “Love him?” Father’s chuckle had no mirth. “There’s more to marriage than love.” He looked to Mother for confirmation. “Ain’t that right, woman?”

  “Love is a nice thing to have. That’s why I’m still here.” Mother’s quiet voice matched her meekness as she stared at the tabletop.

  “Is that right? I don’t believe it. No, ye’re here because I kept ya and yer kids fed and clothed all these years.” Father folded his arms and cleared his throat.

  Mother surveyed her cotton dress, thin with wear and mended more than once, before her gaze shot up to meet his. “We started out in love. Remember those days?” Hurt mixed with wistfulness colored her voice.

  “Sure I do.” His voice was devoid of emotion as he dismissed his wife and turned to his daughter. “Now, girl, ya can make a good life with Micah. No doubt about it.”

  Queasiness stabbed at her gut. “No, Father. I’ll find me a job.”

  “So ye’re serious?” Mother’s eyebrows rose, and her mouth slackened in alarm. “Where?”

  “I don’t know, Mother.” How could she know? She hadn’t considered the possibility until moments ago. “I—I ain’t got no skills, ’cept the ones I learned at yer knee.”

  “Yea, ya know how to run a household better than anyone else I know,” she agreed.
“Surpassin’ even meself, I’d say.”

  “There’s no better place to use what ya learned here than in a position as a wife.” Father shrugged. “But if ya can find a job, suit yerself. That will be more money to line me pocket. Mebbe Mr. Whittaker would hire ya at the tavern. I could put in a good word fer ya.”

  Becca imagined if she took such a position she’d be ogled and prodded by drunken men, young and old alike. Not to mention Father would expect her to pour him ale for free when the owner wasn’t watching. “I–I’d rather work somewhere else.”

  He scowled. “Where, Miss High Horse? Like ya said yerself, ya ain’t got no trainin’ fer a good job.”

  “Maybe one of the factories will take me.”

  Mother pursed her lips. “No doubt they will, a hard worker like you. But ya know from yer brother’s experience that the hours are long and the work can be dangerous.”

  “The pay is good,” Father said.

  “Yea, but I think ye’d be happier doin’ somethin’ else.” Mother brightened. “I know. Ye’re wonderful with yer brothers and sisters. Mebbe ya can be a nanny for some upper-crust folks.”

  “That’s it! Why, I don’t mind helpin’ ya here around the house. So why should I mind helpin’ out some society woman? I’d think she’d have less children than we have runnin’ around here.” Becca spoke faster as her excitement increased. “Yea, I think I could do that.” Without considering the consequences, she took off her tired apron, threw it over a kitchen chair, and headed to the tiny room she shared in discomfort with eight sisters.

  Mother followed her. “What are ya doin’?”

  “I’m takin’ ya up on yer suggestion, that’s all. If I’m a-thinkin’ I’ll get me a job, I’d better look me best. So I’m washin’ me face and hands.” A quick lean toward the mirror told her she looked presentable enough, even under close scrutiny. Behind her, she caught Mother’s reflection. The graying woman’s shoulders stooped more than usual, making her seem even older than her forty years. Any trace of happiness had vanished from her face and demeanor. Sighing, Mother crossed her hands over her chest. She looked at the straw-stuffed mattresses on the floor as though she considered sitting on one but seemed to think better of it and remained standing.