A Heart Most Certain

by Melissa Jagears

  Sometimes honest answers should never be uttered.

  Sebastian came through the parlor door with Mama on his arm. Her face was more alert than usual, but the worry lines were deeper, and her frown intense.

  “Mama, are you all right?” Lydia fluttered over to the couch and arranged the pillows to cushion her mother’s frail body.

  “I’m concerned.” Mama clamped onto Sebastian’s arm as he helped her onto the sofa. She glanced at Sebastian, then her eyes wandered, looking anywhere except at her daughter as she arranged herself amid the pillows.

  What had she done? Mama only struggled to make eye contact with someone she was disappointed in—she’d hardly bothered to look at Papa for years. But Mama rarely had difficulty looking at her.

  Surely if she’d somehow heard about Sadie’s abduction, she’d approve. The one time Papa had been drunk enough to suggest their daughter serve drinks in his favorite saloon, her parents had yelled at each other all night.

  The rocking chair beside her creaked as Sebastian took a seat. Was he the reason for Mama’s upset?

  Lydia sat beside Mama, who kept her gaze on the afghan covering her legs.

  “Are you concerned for Papa?” Most family men would be home by now, but she’d thought Mama ceased worrying about his late nights and occasional disappearances years ago. If she hadn’t, surely her health would’ve declined much faster.

  “No.” Mama picked at the French knots on her decorative pillow. “Sebastian came by to tell me how worried he is about you.”

  Lydia gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come yesterday, but I couldn’t leave Mama on Thanksgiving.” She squeezed Mama’s hand. “Just didn’t feel right.”

  “I hear you’ve been quite busy setting up the library.”

  Something in his tone made her tilt her chin. “Yes.”

  “Seems you’re able to leave your mother for that.”

  She shrugged, choosing to ignore his accusatory tone. “I wasn’t there yesterday. Not every day’s a holiday.”

  Her mother cleared her throat. “Sebastian says you’ve been to the precinct a few times this month. How come you didn’t tell me about that?”

  If he knew she’d been there, he also knew her reason. “I only reported a problem and returned to check on its progress. Nothing alarming.” For Mama anyway. “I didn’t want to upset you over something we have little control over.” She shot a look at Sebastian, hoping her glare would quell any further interrogation from him.

  “But it makes me wonder.” Sebastian raised an eyebrow, clearly not averse to worrying Mama’s nerves. “How do you know about the problems of a prostitute’s children?”

  She glanced at Mama, whose eyes were pinned to some knickknack on the shelf. Lydia trapped her pillow’s lace between her fingers, imagining it was the soft flesh under Sebastian’s arm—where her father liked to pinch her when she refused to hold her tongue. “Some man who’s helping with the library told me.”

  When Sebastian’s eyebrow cocked, she scrambled for something to say before he said anything else. “Since we’re talking about the library . . .” She put a hand on her mother’s arm. “I hope you’ll help me make a slipcover for the library’s couch. Mr. Lowe purchased some beautiful red rugs, but the donated couch clashes terribly.”

  “I’m afraid we’re so far behind with the mending, we’ve no time, unless . . .” Her mother sat up straighter and addressed Sebastian. “Do you think your mother would allow Lydia to use one of the new sewing machines?”

  Did Mama think Mrs. Little decided who could or could not use the machines? She was the reason Mrs. Little even had those machines. “I’m sure I can use them.”

  “I don’t see why not, since Lydia was the one who dragged them out of Mr. Lowe’s pockets.” Sebastian turned to face her again, his expression unpleasant. “And now that she’s working for him, maybe she can get more. How exactly did you obtain the library position again?”

  Sebastian’s narrow-eyed glare made her stomach flip. No wonder Mama was concerned. What had Sebastian been telling her?

  Lydia turned to Mama and tried to paste on an easy smile. “Remember months ago when I took that book off N . . . Mr. Lowe’s desk to read while I waited for him?” At Mama’s nod, she pressed on, hoping neither had noticed her stumble over Nicholas’s name. “He let me borrow it, and naturally I started talking about books.” She turned back to Sebastian. “He’d been thinking of starting a library for a while now, seems he just needed someone with a passion for books to be the librarian.”

  “So the most notorious miser in Teaville suddenly decides to become overly generous, leaves you credit at Reed’s to spend how you will, and sets you up with a job.” Sebastian’s jaw worked. “A job you took without consulting me.”

  Her jaw tightened and her fists curled. How dare he use that suspicious tone in front of her mother? Mama didn’t need to be worrying about anything but her health at the moment.

  Lydia stood. “I think we should get ourselves tea.” With a yank of her head to indicate Sebastian should follow, she swept out of the room and stomped toward the kitchen. His heavy footsteps followed.

  She whirled on him once they cleared the door. “I cannot believe you’d bother my mother with these conjecture-laced accusations.”

  “What accusations?” His confused, innocent expression didn’t fool her. He had a dangerous glint in his eye that made her want to step back, but she wouldn’t.

  “You’re insinuating I’ve procured a job with Mr. Lowe in a questionable manner.” She moved away, unable to stand the proximity, and started collecting the chipped teacups. “I can’t believe you’d put such nonsense in my mother’s head.”

  “I don’t want you working at the library.”

  “And you have to bring that up in front of my mother, who clearly can’t tolerate strain right now?” The saucer rattled on the tea platter, and she stopped its motion with a heavy hand. “You told me once that it would be a good idea for me to work in a library.”

  “I hadn’t expected that to happen until years after we married.”

  “But the town needs one now—”

  “It’s more that you need one. Admit it. It would give you an excuse to bury your nose in a book at all times.”

  She dropped the tea kettle onto the stove and cringed at the thunk. “Reading books isn’t a librarian’s job. Though a library would mean I get to read more often, that would happen whether I worked there or not.” Evidently buying her Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s newest collection hadn’t meant that he’d decided reading for enjoyment could be worthwhile. “And I will work there, your permission or not.”

  He leaned against the counter, his arms crossed against his chest, his eyes tiny slits. “When we first discussed marriage, you seemed to realize I needed a good Christian wife to face the voters with. I do not need a secretive, bristly, rebellious one.”

  “And I need someone to help me care for my mother and then me after she passes. But bringing this subject up in front of her when she’s obviously ill indicates you’re not such a good choice for me either.”

  “Your reputation affects more than just me. If your mother found out you were doing something she’d be ashamed of—”

  “Working as a librarian is nothing to be ashamed of.” Lydia transferred sugar cubes from the bag to the bowl, trying not to crush them with her little tongs.

  “I heard a strange story the other day.” Sebastian shifted, leaning toward her slightly. “Heard someone talking about a properly dressed woman skulking about in an alley off Willow. Then Officer Vincent informs me you’re awfully concerned about some abandoned children on Willow.” He grabbed the spoon she clinked against the china. “The Line is a wicked place, Lydia. You best not go there unless you’re with a whole lot of elderly women carrying hymnals, or with me.” He leaned back. “Not that I ever go.”

  “And why don’t you?”

  His brow crinkled. “That’s an odd question from a woma
n whose worldly woes are exacerbated by a father who frequents the area. Why would you want your future husband going to that part of town?”

  “Of course I don’t want you going to The Line for the reason my father does. What I mean is, if you’re going to campaign against saloons and parlor houses, don’t you think knowing what drives people to work there would help you figure out how to dismantle it? How else will you know how to help them?”

  “You think you’re qualified to give me campaigning advice?” He snatched a cut-out cookie she’d placed on the platter and bit off the gingerbread man’s head. “I get enough of that from my mother.”

  Comparing her to his mother was the exact opposite of endearing. She forced herself not to turn and walk away. “Perhaps we need a different perspective on things. If we get to know their prob—”

  “Let me give you some rather obvious campaigning advice you’ve overlooked.” He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “If the woman I’m courting is traipsing around The Line—alone and stirring up trouble—that doesn’t reflect well on me, no matter what she’s doing. . . . Which is what, exactly?”

  “If you claim being there cannot at all be advantageous to your campaign plans, I won’t bother you with the details.”

  “Don’t go there again.” He threw his broken cookie back on the plate. “You will not disobey.”

  She swallowed and met his gaze. Sebastian couldn’t be God’s best for her—not if he was more concerned about his image than helping others. “I will not obey, for I have no reason to.”

  “If you want to marry me—”

  “I don’t, and I won’t.”

  He shoved away from the counter. “I thought you were smart. You’ve got nothing to entice a man to wed you besides pretty eyes and a cumbersome intellect. And your father . . . If only you knew how little you have to recommend you. But I was willing to try, to keep the peace, to give you a life you had no chance of getting any other way. I think you need to talk to your parents before you make a decision. What you do affects them just as much as it affects us.”

  She stopped messing with the tea service to keep her trembling hands from betraying her by clinking china pieces together. “So are you saying I have no choice but to marry you?”

  “You have a choice, but you’re certainly making the wrong one.”

  “Do you really want to marry me?”

  “I suppose I’ve fallen for you.”

  “Suppose?”

  “Look.” He flung out his hands. “This is an arrangement that’s convenient for the both of us. I need a wife who’ll make me look trustworthy in the eyes of voters, and you need support. Love is a transient thing. It’ll come and go. We can work at making that happen, but it’s not what’s important.”

  How could she force herself to love someone if they couldn’t agree on the things that mattered most? “What are you planning to do for those children Officer Vincent told you I was worried about?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “It just does.”

  “You want me to be worried about some no-account woman’s bastards?”

  The tea kettle whistled, and Lydia welcomed the excuse to turn her back on him. Just a few weeks ago, those words might have made her cringe only because he’d said them so loudly. She would’ve even silently agreed with him that they weren’t her concern.

  How had Nicholas seen anything redeemable in her that day she’d first stepped into his office? Maybe she was being too hard on Sebastian. Could he not change like she had?

  Nicholas thought she could help change people’s minds. Wouldn’t changing Sebastian’s be one of the best ways to help these people? As a politician, he could do so much to help them if he had more compassion.

  She moved the kettle from its burner and set it on a folded towel on the counter, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn and face him. Even if she could change him, her heart didn’t race and her skin didn’t warm when she stood next to the mayor’s son. Not the way they did when she merely anticipated Nicholas’s presence. Reactions she shouldn’t have while expecting to become engaged to another man.

  She had little chance with Nicholas, and therefore those feelings meant nothing—nothing except she couldn’t lead Sebastian along any longer, no matter how poorly her mother might react to her daughter giving up what little future security she had within reach. Besides, she had a job now, and knowing Nicholas, it’d be a secure one that would provide her with enough.

  “You’re right.” She spoke to him without turning around. “Life is stacked against me in such a manner that marrying you is the smartest move I could make. But it looks like I’m going to do something foolish.”

  The silence extended long enough that the ticking of his timepiece sounded overly loud. “So you’re wanting to end things?”

  “Yes.”

  He grabbed her wrist and spun her around. She fought to keep from cowering in front of those gleaming angry eyes.

  “I want you to tell your parents this is purely your decision.”

  She shrugged, hard-pressed to keep her gaze even with his. “I will.” She’d made Papa mad plenty of times before—she could endure his anger again.

  “And though your reputation no longer affects me, you still ought to stay out of the red-light district. It’s for your own good.”

  “I agree. It’s for my own good.” She wrenched her hand out of his grip. “But that won’t stop me from going. Not if I can help the people there who need it.”

  34

  Lydia shivered on the church stairs. God surely wouldn’t mind if she wasn’t in church every time the doors were open, but if she skipped tonight’s Sunday prayer service just to avoid Mrs. Little, she might start finding reasons to skip Sunday school and the moral-society meetings too. Sunday morning services weren’t so bad—just this morning she had easily avoided Mrs. Little in the crowd of churchgoers.

  Might as well face the woman now.

  Would anyone other than the Littles know she’d ended her understanding with Sebastian? She hadn’t yet found the nerve to tell Mama.

  Forcing herself to take one step after another, she looked around for one of Nicholas’s carriages in the line of vehicles outside the church, though she was certain he wouldn’t be there. He only attended Sunday mornings as far as she knew. But if anyone would be proud of her for standing up for what she believed in despite the consequences, it would be him.

  The buzz in the sanctuary was livelier than usual. When she pushed through the inner doors, almost everyone turned to look over their shoulders, and then the place fell silent. Holding onto the door handle, the urge to step back and run overwhelmed her.

  Pastor Wisely stood on the bottom step of the auditorium’s stage. “Would you mind coming in, Miss King?”

  The carpet sunk under her feet like quicksand. When had he ever addressed a latecomer from the front?

  “Lydia?” The pastor beckoned her forward.

  She yanked her feet forward and slogged past the pews, fuller than usual. A few congregants ducked their heads when she looked at them. Shouldn’t they already be singing? Had Sebastian retaliated and told them about her being in the red-light district? But what evidence did he have besides hearsay?

  She shook her head and took a deep breath as she forged forward. Perhaps this hushed crowd had nothing to do with her. But then again, why had the pastor beckoned her to come up front?

  Pastor Wisely cleared his throat, and his wife patted a spot between her and Evelyn for Lydia to sit. After she did, Evelyn snatched up her hand, squeezed, and didn’t let go.

  Pastor took a side glance at her and cleared his throat again. “Now that the young lady is present, I’ll allow these questions to continue, but we need to watch our tone. We know nothing for certain.”

  Lydia’s stomach plummeted like an anvil into the abyss.

  Mrs. Little stood up in the pew to the left. “I have heard from a reliable source that Miss King doesn’t deny skulking about The Lin
e unchaperoned. Her behavior should concern us all.”

  “And why is that?” Lydia muttered under her breath. Evelyn squeezed her hand tighter.

  “I don’t think we should be discussing this in front of the children,” Bernadette said, but the elder Mr. Taylor spoke over her.

  “She represents us in this community, and we’re supposed to admonish our members if they’re out of line.” He tapped the top of the pew in front of him.

  Muttered affirmations fluttered about the sanctuary.

  Lydia looked over her shoulder and counted. About fifteen of the most influential church members weren’t looking at her very kindly, and the handful who ought to support her seemed to be cowering like rabbits in front of a pack of wolves.

  Nicholas had told her this congregation was more concerned about themselves than the poor, but she hadn’t believed him because there were good ones in the bunch. Yet Charlie and her husband, Harrison, weren’t present. And though the Wiselys sat beside her, most of the faces surrounding her weren’t encouraging.

  “Why didn’t they wait to ask me about this alone?” she whispered to Bernadette.

  “You can speak now. You do have a good reason for being there, yes?”

  Of course she did, but since she wasn’t at liberty to explain how she’d started going there in the first place, would they believe her?

  She couldn’t out Nicholas to save herself from their ire. If his disguise was exposed, who’d help Sadie? Who’d keep searching for Annie’s children? Where would the women who wanted to leave prostitution go?

  She could handle being disgraced if Nicholas remained free to assist those who needed help more than she did.

  Angry voices, barely audible, whirled among the swirling fat snowflakes starting to drift down from above. As he’d planned to sneak into brothels to look for Annie’s children tonight, Nicholas had expected to hear drunken, riotous voices, but not in this part of town. He flipped down his wool coat’s lapel, uncovering his ears so he could pinpoint the disturbance.