Circled Heart by Karen J. Hasley Read Free Book Online Page A

a pristine white fence. A perfectly domestic appearance, almost disappointing in its ordinariness.
    A short, stout woman opened the door to my knock and gave me a frank look from head to toe. Because I appeared neither destitute nor despairing, she guessed correctly.
    “You must be Miss Swan. Matron said to expect you this morning.”
    Inside, the hallway smelled like lemons and the wood and windows shone. The curtains I had seen from the outside hung crisp and clean, and fresh flowers filled a vase on a table by the front door. This could be anyone’s comfortable home, I thought, and followed that with the immediate realization that it was someone’s home, even if only temporary. Looking around, I felt inordinately glad that the environment was so bright and welcoming. If I were in trouble, pregnant, unmarried and cast out by my family, fleeing a husband who beat me, or widowed and poverty-stricken, alone and ill, any of the situations that befell a woman in a man’s world, I would not be afraid to come here. It bespoke a woman’s touch and said welcome.
    Hilda Cartwright, Matron to the woman who first greeted me, came out a door at the end of the hallway and walked toward me. She was tall and walked with a slight limp, an innate dignity in her frank gaze, upright bearing, and sincere smile.
    “Miss Swan, I’m Hilda Cartwright. Kate said you promised to visit. Come into my office, please. Eulalie, would you bring Miss Swan a cup of tea? If you walked from the station, you had a bit of a hike.” She stated everything calmly and I thought her temperament exactly right for the work she did. There was something reassuring about her voice and manner, a combination of tranquility and kindness that made one trust her judgment without knowing her at all.
    Miss Cartwright’s study was utilitarian at best, with plain curtains, an unadorned square desk, and shelves of books. Later I would find out that the room was a reflection of the woman, nothing ornamental about her either, every thought, word, and action directed to a practical objective.
    She sat across the desk from me, examining me with her very fine gray eyes for a silent moment, then said, “You come highly recommended, Miss Swan, as a gifted student and a young woman of purpose. I spoke to Sally Gray, one of your college teachers, and she sang your praises to the heavens. I admit, however, that she also warned me about your stubborn streak, said you do not take correction well if you believe it to be unwarranted, and that you would rather make a wrong decision than no decision at all.”
    “She’s right on all counts, but it’s still humbling to have one’s flaws enumerated like a shopping list. I had so much to learn then. I still do,” I added at Hilda Cartwright’s look, “but in my first year at college, I was almost beyond redemption, always opening my mouth and blurting out wrong answers and speaking without listening. Fortunately, Miss Gray saw that I meant well, took me under her wing, and with great patience taught me—as she called it—to listen between the lines. I have the warmest regard for Miss Gray. I hope she’s well.”
    “Yes, very well. What do you know about the Anchorage?” The abrupt change of topic did not faze me.
    “I know it’s one of many Crittenton homes dotted across the country, and that it offers shelter to unwed mothers whose families either cannot or will not care for them.”
    “Your tone speaks your disapproval.”
    “Not of the girls,” I interjected quickly. “I would never hold their circumstances against them. It’s the families with whom I have little patience, shipping the young woman off to an unfamiliar place to have her baby among strangers, then bringing her back and pretending she’s been visiting Aunt Molly in Omaha.”
    “Sometimes that is the best course for everyone concerned, Miss Swan. The young woman picks up her life and the baby goes to a loving home, to parents who have longed for a child