One of the things I did over the last couple of years was to write a few scenes—scenes that were not in my books. Some of these happened before the books began, or like the one below, a scene that was referenced in the story.
In The Rose and The Thorn, Sarah received word her hated grandfather had died. In his quest for power, he had sold her into marriage to a wealthy but horrible man who had abused her for years. Her lawyer reported old Mr. Hollingsworth had changed shortly before his death, but she can’t believe that. She also received an envelope.
The following is the story behind that envelope:
Andrew Elijah Hollingsworth lay in his bed, propped up with pillows. The stroke had taken most of his body and fought to capture his mind. Death lingered nearby, but why shouldn’t it?
Tightness gripped his chest. He had wasted most of his life and ruined so many more—his wife, his son and grandchildren, people whose lives he played with like chess pieces on a checkerboard.
Memories of the many tears his wife had shed over what he had become flooded his thoughts. A tear ran down his cheek. His hand, weakened by his stroke, could not brush it away.
His bedroom door opened a bit. Light from a lamp entered the room before his housekeeper Mrs. Chester did. She glided to his bed with a silent tread. “Sir, that young minister told me the blessed news. I know your sweet wife is rejoicing in Heaven, as is our dear Lord. She so longed for you to repent and come back to our loving Savior. She and my mother prayed many times for just such a thing.”
Moisture ran down his cheek—tears for the anguish he had caused his wife and tears of joy for the peace he now felt at his return to the fold of God.
While Mrs. Chester dried his cheeks, another thought came to him. He stared at his hand and slowly moved it on his bed cover.
“Sir, do you need something?” The housekeeper set the lamp on the table by the bed.
He struggled with what little strength he had and scratched with his index finger.
“You wish to write something?”
He let out a sigh and nodded slightly.
She tugged something out of her apron pocket then slid an opened notebook under his hand and slipped the stub of a pencil between his claw-like fingers. “Here, sir, let me help you.”
Seconds grew into minutes while his hand made the admission and plea that had been too long in coming—sorry forgive. God had forgiven him, but would his granddaughter? Had he hurt her too deeply? Had he waited too long?
At long last, he released the pencil. It fell from his hand. Mrs. Chester glanced at the words. “Do you want me to give this to someone?”
His strength ebbed. He tried to nod and hoped she understood.
She tapped her cheek as though she was trying to understand exactly what he wanted. At last, she nodded. “You want me to send it to her?”
He blinked. His head shifted downward a bit.
“I’ll get an envelope and be right back.”
He closed his eyes and waited. So much had changed today. God’s mercy welcomed him back, but there was one person he had hurt and betrayed more than anyone else in the world, even more than his beloved wife.
Mrs. Chester returned and placed an envelope on the covers where her notebook had been minutes before. He scratched his finger like he had done earlier. She slipped her pencil into his hand.
Bit by bit, he wrote the name with his shaking hand—S…a…r…a…h.
The pencil fell again. Mrs. Chester picked up the envelope and looked at it. She nodded and tucked the note he had written inside. When she started to slip it into her pocket, he grunted. She glanced at him. He struggled, but at last he pointed.
She watched his hand then hurried to his dresser, opened the bottom drawer and withdrew a small drawstring bag.
He let out a sigh. Nothing was kept secret from this woman. She had been in charge of this household for many, many years and knew every nook and cranny, as well as the contents of every drawer in the house. In shame, he remembered she had witnessed him rip the cross necklace from his granddaughter’s neck years before.
Mrs. Chester added the broken necklace to the envelope and glanced at him.
His head moved a bit downward.
She held up the envelope. “I will see she receives this.” She slipped it into her apron pocket. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
He wished he could tell how much he appreciated her. Maybe she knew it already. He tried to hold up his bent fingers, something he had done each night when she had asked him that same question.
She placed the small portrait of his beloved wife into his hand and removed the pillows that propped him upright.
“Good night, sir.” She took the lamp and left the room. The door whispered closed behind her.
Peace flowed through him. He had come back to his loving Father like the prodigal son in the Bible. Death didn’t need to linger nearby any longer.
Andrew Elijah Hollingsworth was ready to meet his Maker and his God.
