Free The Carousel Painter by Judith Miller Page B

stairs in the future, I resolved never again to follow behind Augusta. My father would have considered the decision silly and useless—akin to closing the barn door after the horses had escaped. That saying had been one of Papa’s favorites. I felt weepy at the remembrance. Holding a fisted hand to my lips, I coughed to hold back the unbidden tears.
    Because we arrived at the church somewhat late, our entrance required only one or two introductions before we arrived at the Galloways’ pew. I could only hope we would escape as easily. From all appearances the added face powder and hat were working well. Augusta wasn’t receiving any gaping stares, but I doubted whether anyone could gain a good view of her. She’d been squished between her mother and me.
    After the Scripture reading the preacher announced his sermon topic: forgiveness. I prayed Mrs. Galloway would hearken to the preacher’s words and the remainder of my time with the family would be somewhat bearable, but Tyson’s presence would surely add to the awkwardness of the afternoon.
    While the preacher opened his Bible and looked out over the congregation, I settled against the back of the pew and prepared for the sermon. It was sometime during the beginning of the preacher’s message and the final amen that I convinced myself Tyson was primarily responsible for Augusta’s fall. If he hadn’t unexpectedly arrived at the front door, she wouldn’t have plummeted down the stairs. In all likelihood, church wasn’t the proper place to be mitigating my guilt, but it eased my conscience to assign at least a portion of the fault to him.
    After church I used the ploy to advantage. When Mrs. Galloway pointed to me as the culprit responsible for Augusta’s bruised face, I didn’t hesitate to add Tyson’s unexpected arrival into the explanation. After that, an accidental fall was the only explanation given. Mrs. Galloway didn’t appear willing to assess any responsibility to Tyson.
    Augusta pulled me aside while her parents visited outside the church. “Don’t be offended by Mother’s comments. She’s embarrassed by my appearance and fears someone might believe Father inflicted my bruises.”
    My stomach plummeted at such a thought. “I never considered such an idea. How could anyone think your father would—”
    “There’s cruelty in more homes than you might believe. Even among the folks who show up at church every Sunday. Of course that’s not true of my father, but Mother always believes people will think the worst.” She grasped my arm, and we walked toward the carriage. “She thought I should remain at home this morning, but Father wouldn’t hear of it.”
    Augusta released my arm and hoisted herself into the carriage. Her face had tightened into a grimace.
    “You’re hurting much worse than you’ve been letting on, aren’t you?”
    “I’m a little sore, but it will pass soon enough. Don’t say anything to Mother. I’m hoping Tyson is feeling better and the three of us can go out for the afternoon.”
    The thought of spending an afternoon with Tyson held no appeal, but I didn’t argue. I’d wait and see how he was faring when we got home. If Augusta’s plan took shape, I’d find some way to excuse myself.
    The ride home was surprisingly pleasant. The churchgoers had accepted the explanation given for Augusta’s bruises, Mrs. Galloway was in good humor, and the weather was surprisingly warm for an early spring day in northern Ohio. Augusta would have added Tyson’s arrival as another reason for the pleasant mood. And I suppose it was. For everyone but me.
    Augusta was careful to hide any sign of pain as we walked up the steps and into the house. Frances stood in the foyer waiting to relieve us of our wraps. Augusta removed her lightweight cape and handed it to the maid. “Has Tyson come downstairs?”
    Frances nodded. “He has. He said to tell you that he is feeling better.”
    “Where is he?” Augusta raised on tiptoe and peered