A Heart Most Certain

by Melissa Jagears

  He pulled at his collar and hustled after her. “True, but—”

  She glanced back at him for a second but kept striding toward the coach. “So by refusing to help your own congregation, you might punish the handful of Mrs. Littles, but you hurt the sweet Evelyn Wiselys too.” She put her hands on her hips and slowed, catching her breath. “Our church could’ve used that money for some very necessary things. The pews need replacing, the heating system needs fixing, the—”

  “Moral society needs sewing machines?”

  She crossed her arms against her chest and stopped walking. “Yes. For the fifteenth time, there is nothing wrong with giving poor people blankets. I don’t know why you seem to think there is.”

  “Because you’re not thinking about the poor—not really.” He ran his tongue along his teeth, slowing his speech so his tone would stay calm. “What would they do with your fancy needlework? They’d stuff it away in a chest if they had one, afraid to soil it. Whereas that same thirty dollars you wanted could buy almost sixty cheap wool blankets. You could help thirty or more families instead of six.” He met Lydia’s heated stare and braced himself—for what, he wasn’t quite sure.

  But instead of spitting fire at him, Lydia’s posture wilted, and she hung her head, shaking it slightly. “Wool blankets would be cheaper and could help more people, yes, but I know how it feels to have ‘good enough.’ But to receive something beautiful . . . ” She ran a hand down her sleeve, catching the bit of satin ribbon at the end. “The Renfroes’ maids’ castoffs would’ve sufficed, but they gave me fancy dresses I didn’t ‘need.’ These pretty frocks took away the stigma of my poverty and let people above me judge me for who I am.” She looked up at him, her intense eyes making him squirm. “Or at least helped somewhat.”

  He really hadn’t ever thought about how being poor felt—he’d only taken the price of their needs into account.

  It had taken God swinging a spiritual two-by-four at him to realize he had to forgive and love the kinds of people who frequented the sporting section—why hadn’t he realized his giving to the poor would have been enhanced by more love as well?

  He knew Theresa and Alec would be grateful for extra wool blankets, but would a pretty quilt uplift their spirits? It might not have made much of a difference to him, but he was surrounded by nice things all the time.

  Yet he’d nearly had to force Alec to take his scrap lumber to burn.

  “Well . . .” Lydia sighed and then strode toward Parker, who’d jumped down from his sunny perch. The low-hanging gray clouds from this morning had rolled away, and the sunshine had ushered a bit of warmth into the November afternoon.

  How could he make things better with Lydia? This was the last of her wishes and she’d wed Sebastian likely by the end of the year, so they wouldn’t be spending much more time together.

  He didn’t want them to part ways with her thinking the worst of him. Though he wasn’t nearly as good as he’d thought himself to be before she came along.

  But to explain why he operated as he did, his character flaws, his mistrust of the church, he’d have to tell Lydia everything.

  Did he trust her enough? Only Henri knew anything of his past, and he only knew about Roxie and that Nicholas and his wife hadn’t gotten along.

  After scraping his boots, Nicholas signaled to Mr. Parker that they were ready to go and hauled himself in with Lydia. “I’m sorry I’ve kept you in the dark so much.”

  She gave him a quick glance before she let her head roll back to look out the window.

  He sucked in a breath and forced himself to start. “The only person in Teaville who knows much about me is Henri—so part of me is surprised the whole town doesn’t know everything he knows.” He attempted a lighthearted chuckle, but it fell flat. “But he is sworn to secrecy and somehow manages it despite talking all day long.”

  She made some noise as if only responding out of politeness, then closed her eyes.

  “So . . . I should start by telling you about my wife.” The last word tore from his throat and hung.

  “Wife?” Her eyebrows perked up, but the wrinkles on her forehead seemed drawn in, as if she wrestled with a headache.

  “She died almost eight years ago.” He turned to look at the passing landscape Lydia had found so riveting. “When I told you I sympathized with how hard it must be to take care of your mother, knowing you’re powerless to stop the illness, it’s because I really do remember that feeling of helplessness.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss. How long was she in pain?”

  “Too long.”

  “Consumption?”

  He turned back to Lydia to see her reaction. “No. The pox.”

  Syphilis.

  Her hand covered her mouth. “Your wife was a . . . she was a . . . So that’s why you are determined to help . . .”

  “No.” Close, but he wouldn’t let Lydia think so. “She left me for someone else, a man who was as unfaithful to her as she was to me.” He rubbed his hands along his slacks as if he could wipe off the shame of his failure, which felt embedded in his skin and on display for everyone to see, much like the sores that had once ravaged Gracie’s skin. “He picked up the pox from the cribhouses he frequented and passed it on to her.”

  “But why would you have nursed her back to health if she was with another man?”

  Yes, why had he? How had God guilted him into helping, considering how hard his heart had been? “Her lover accused her of giving the pox to him, and so he abandoned her. Her case was rather severe and spread faster than most. Her face . . .” He refused to close his eyes, otherwise the image of Gracie’s skin covered with large swollen sores—some disintegrating her nose, others crowding her right eye—would taunt him.

  A beautiful woman destroyed.

  All because he’d been stingy and stubborn.

  He’d been working on the miserliness over these past several years, but evidently his stubbornness hadn’t decreased significantly. “She had nowhere else to go but to me. The church ladies refused to help, and her family and Christian friends wouldn’t visit her during those terrible last days. She begged me to bring her company to get her mind off the pain, but no one would come.”

  “How did you handle it?” Her voice was whisper soft, but he didn’t dare to look at her. She might not sound too disgusted with him at the moment, but she’d yet to hear everything.

  “Not well. I was torn up by her betrayal, and she was still angry with me. Since I was her only attendant, the sickroom was the farthest thing from a calm environment—we had never done well together.” He cleared his throat, wishing he hadn’t started this trip through his past, but he might as well continue. “She married me believing I’d provide for her. I married her because I’d been struck dumb by her pretty blue eyes and dark hair.”

  Lydia fingered a curl near her ear.

  Yes, Lydia, she was as beautiful as you—but not as kind. “By the time we realized our expectations and dreams were diametrically opposed, we were already married. She refused to give me what I wanted, and I refused to give her what she wanted.”

  “What did she want?”

  “I had a fair amount of money back then, enough to reinvest in businesses, anyway, but not enough to splurge with. She wanted a grand house: five bedrooms, a library, a house for the gardener, a Tiffany lamp hanging in the dining room, a ballroom where she could throw a party every spring and fall, a conservatory, a formal garden—”

  “Your mansion.”

  He nodded and waited until the knot left his throat. “I told her I’d build it for her one day—when my businesses were more firmly established.” His voice sounded rougher than it should have. “But she didn’t find me worth the wait.”

  “I’m sorry, Nicholas.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  They bumped along for a little while, and he stared out the window. Though dinnertime was not for another hour, revealing some of his secrets had taken its toll, and he longed to put his he
ad down and sleep without dreams. He looked over at Lydia and caught her staring at him.

  He raised his brow when she didn’t turn to look away.

  “What . . .” Her cheek twitched. “What did you want—from Gracie, that is.”

  A rather bold, invasive question. But when hadn’t Lydia been bold?

  Her eyes slowly lowered, and she fiddled with her sleeve. “I apologize. Not my business.”

  “It’s all right.” He rubbed the edge of his right eye where a headache was forming. “I wanted her affection. But evidently I had to buy it . . . and I refused.”

  Lydia pressed her lips together, and that look of pity he’d feared crossed her face.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me. It was years ago.”

  “I had no right to ask, but thank you for telling me. I think I understand you a little better now. Like why my concern about what I was going to get from these wishes made you unhappy, my worry over—”

  “You aren’t Gracie. Don’t compare yourself to her.” His voice stopped working. He attempted to clear his throat, but it didn’t help much. “I only learned to love the unlovable because God forced me to with Gracie. Having to forgive her was beyond difficult. And for some reason, I thought I could force you into seeing what I do now without going through all the pain. I’d hoped you’d be able to see the people behind the immorality without being dragged through it with them—see the needs of people you might not have considered. But since I’m only making you angry, I’ve failed.”

  “You’re not a complete failure, Nicholas.” Her mouth tensed into what looked like a slight smile, and her icy blues lost their frost. “Though you’ve acted in a rather high-handed way, I’m trying to think differently about who deserves help and how. But someone should ask you the same question you asked me weeks ago. Who else will help our congregation think differently, if you won’t?”

  “Someone else can help them—like you.”

  “But not like you could.”

  He rubbed a hand down his face. “I’m bound to irrevocably mess things up.” Like he almost had with Lydia. He couldn’t open himself up in front of just anyone, and if he hadn’t just confessed what he did, would they be having this conversation?

  “You need to find sympathy for our hypocrite brothers and sisters. You said you were once coldhearted and bitter toward the people you help now, but God figured out a way to teach you how to care for and forgive the unlovable through your ordeal with your wife.”

  “Something I never want to go through again.”

  “Then you best pray God helps you find sympathy for those hypocrites before God employs a similar tactic to change your attitude toward them.”

  26

  Lydia handed her mother a cup of peppermint tea and poured herself another. The clock steadily ticked toward eleven, and she’d soon have to drag herself to the moral-society meeting. Over the past week she’d invented numerous explanations for mistaking Nicholas’s intentions to fund the rest of their project, but none would likely appease Mrs. Little. If only time would slow—and not just because she didn’t want to face Sebastian’s mother.

  Worrying about what she’d say to the moral society had stolen some of her sleep, but hearing Mama’s rattling cough grow more frequent stole the rest.

  Mama couldn’t read, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t sew much since the coughing made her so tired. Dr. Lindon wasn’t optimistic about her recovering this time.

  Mama was miserable and had said she prayed for death to come.

  Lydia sniffed.

  Mama’s hand crept across the sofa searching for Lydia’s. “It’ll be all right.”

  “I’m not ready.” Lydia snatched her hand and kissed the translucent skin. “Doctors are wrong sometimes.”

  “I don’t think he is. But you’ll still have your father here.” When Lydia didn’t respond, her mother sighed. “Which means your heavenly Father will have to take care of you.” She patted her hand. “But you’ll soon be Mrs. Little. I can’t think of a better way for God to ease my worry over leaving you so young. I will miss the grandchildren. Tell them I loved them.”

  Tears blurred Lydia’s vision, and her teacup clattered as she placed it on the saucer. “I will, Mama.”

  But would there be grandchildren? Should she tell Mama she had misgivings about becoming part of the Little family, or just keep that ache to herself?

  She rubbed her eyes, already bleary and now threatening tears. What Nicholas had told her about his late wife had only added to her restless nights. Had his cautionary tale been a warning against marrying Sebastian? Had he given her a job hoping she would save herself from a similar mistake?

  A month ago she hadn’t cared a whit what he thought. Now his opinion mattered greatly.

  Her mother’s hand went limp atop hers. Lydia startled and pressed a hand to Mama’s neck, thankful the weak beat and the subtle lifting of her chest proved she’d only fallen asleep.

  The doctor said she could die any day. Would ending things with Sebastian hasten her mother’s death? She had asked God to allow Mama to find her ease in death, but she couldn’t bear being responsible for rushing her departure.

  But what if Mama struggled along for longer than expected and Sebastian got around to officially proposing? How long should she keep Sebastian tied to her without intending to go through with an engagement?

  She couldn’t engage herself with no intent to fulfill her word. She had to decide . . . or should she put things off for Mama?

  She blew out a breath and forced herself not to relive the dream she’d entertained last night—hoping Nicholas would swoop in, propose, and remove Mama’s fears over her daughter being uncared for. Right now she must face reality, not pray for a fairy tale. She had to go to the moral society meeting and admit she’d not won Nicholas Lowe over, that after weeks of working for his donation, she was empty-handed.

  And somehow, despite that, she still liked the man . . . more than liked the man, even if he was beyond stubborn.

  After rearranging the afghan across her mother’s chest, she slowly readied herself to leave for the meeting. She didn’t want to arrive a second before she had to.

  While buttoning her coat, she took one last look at Mama, making sure she saw movement beneath the covers. Then she let herself outside and gently tugged the door closed to keep from disturbing her sleep.

  Lydia shuffled toward the church through the light snow that melted the second it hit the street. She shouldn’t feel depressed over failing to gain a donation for the sewing machines, but her heart hung heavy, and no logical reasoning eased the downward tug.

  The tepid air inside the church didn’t warm her, and the sound of vibrant female voices curled up the stairs to strangle her. Would her news kill their jolly mood, or would she only cause an insignificant pause and receive a round of “chin up”s?

  Hopefully her mother would last until next week, so there would be something to be thankful for on Thanksgiving. Lydia pushed against the door, but it jammed against a wad of brown paper on the floor.

  “Oh, let me get that,” Evelyn’s voice called, and Lydia pulled the door back as Evelyn tugged the obstruction from beneath it.

  “Come in and see the surprise.” She waved Lydia inside.

  A shiny new Burdick sewing machine with an intricate wrought-iron treadle and gleaming black-and-gold body stood in the center of the room. Nearby, Pastor Wisely wrestled with a crowbar and another large crate.

  Lydia let out the breath she’d been holding. She’d fretted for nothing. Now no one would care that she hadn’t obtained a single penny from Nicholas. She pulled off her gloves and sidled over to Evelyn, who gleefully pulled out more brown paper from one of the three long crates on the floor.

  “Blue again.” Evelyn pulled out a bolt of rich navy cotton, and then smiled down at Lydia. “The colors are rather plain, but we can spiff them up with the patterned fabric already donated.”

  Lydia pulled out another bolt of the same material. “I
thought Mrs. Little had only collected enough to order one sewing machine. How could these have arrived already?”

  “Oh, but she didn’t order them. She was just as surprised as I was when Daddy hauled them in.”

  Mrs. Little circled the second sewing machine Pastor Wisely had freed from its confines. She ran a hand along its shiny body, pressing the other hand against her heart.

  Charlie crouched in front of the other one, fiddling with the wheel. “I get to run one of these, right? They got to be more fun than pricking my finger twenty times an hour.”

  Lydia smoothed the cotton fabric. Several bolts of navy, brown, and gray were piled next to the empty crates. No imagination, but fine quality material . . . and two Burdick sewing machines, delivered on the day she’d have to admit she hadn’t succeeded. Her heart fluttered. “Was there a note?”

  Evelyn shrugged. “Mrs. Little or Daddy might know.”

  Lydia walked over to where Mrs. Little sat testing out the treadle. “Evelyn says you didn’t order these.”

  “No.” Mrs. Little looked up, her brow wrinkled. “But I would’ve thought you’d know that. I suppose he decided to order them for us himself.”

  Unsure how to answer, Lydia noticed an invoice tacked on the machine’s crate. Customer name: Lowe. Her heart jumped into her throat, and she felt for the chair beside her.

  For them to have arrived today, he would likely have needed to order them the day they left the Indian mission or even before.

  But she hadn’t changed his mind, had she? He’d still maintained the quilts were ridiculous compared to wool blankets. And though she’d told him a beautiful item would be appreciated, she’d decided he’d been right. They should try to help as many people as possible. She’d even resolved to persuade the group to buy wool blankets instead of a machine.

  She stared at the machines and the piles of fabric while Mrs. Little squabbled with Pastor Wisely over where she wanted the machines set up.

  Nicholas hadn’t bought these for the moral society—he’d bought them for her.

  But according to him, he’d never bent his will for his late wife, Gracie.