“I only hope you won’t let what happened this morning keep us from getting to know each other. After all, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Sara’s steps felt lighter after that. The previous inhibitions began to melt away. Though Tom was still a stranger, they did hold to the same Christian faith. That fact alone should be strong enough to overcome the differences and spark a ray of hope.
She watched his large hand tighten around the handle to her carpetbag. She liked strong hands willing to take control of a situation. She wondered then what it would feel like to have his hand hold hers. But it was far too early to think about such things. There was so much to learn, after all. She hoped his sister would help ready her for the future and all that Tom Haskins expected of her.
“You will have your own room,” Tom went on. “Claire had it made up special. The room used to belong to our parents before they passed away. It’s been a guest room ever since.”
“I lost my mother, too. She and I were very close. She died of some sickness.”
“Mine did, too.” He grew quiet.
Talkative and then quiet. A man of deep thought who considered every word before it spilled from his lips. A fine quality to possess. Sara chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re someone who likes to think before he speaks. Mama used to say I should do that. Not to say things unless I considered them first. She said it was a good trait to have.”
“It’s not one I tend to use very often,” he confessed. “But thank you for the compliment. I do hope you come to like it here, Sara. Though it might seem strange at first, give it time.”
Warmth filled her. Perhaps, as Tom said, God indeed brought her here for a purpose. This was a time to let the old die and embrace the new, no matter how strange it seemed. Now if only she possessed the strength to embrace it. Dear God, make me able. Make me acceptable here. Make me the person You want me to be. And may I be the one Tom will love forever.
Chapter Eight
Tom wondered what the future held. The clock had struck noon before he finally found his newspaper bride wandering the streets of Bethlehem. He knew she had been chased away by the comments of his so-called friends, a moment that embarrassed him greatly. He swiftly rebuked the men in his company for their pitiful remarks. Lawrence had given him a sharp look and claimed he had errands to run before taking off. The other men returned sheepishly to their duties. Tom remained at the depot, looking for the young woman in the torn coat and tendrils of brown hair swept up by the wind. She should have been easy to spot among the finely dressed women, but she had disappeared.
For a time he lingered at the depot in the hopes that she might reappear to claim her trunk. If she were anything like Claire, personal possessions meant a great deal to the woman. But time went by and there was no sign of her. Finally he set his hat back on his head and began a slow walk toward his house. If he returned without Sara, Claire was certain to ask what happened. And he could just imagine her response.
“You let those ruffians you call friends mock that poor thing? Tom, what has come over you? How could you invite her here and then let those men say such things?”
He made the decision before God that if he found Sara, he would be nothing short of a gentleman. He would reach out to her and help her—and keep his friends a bay. It was the least he could do.
Finally he saw Sara coming out of the bakery, carrying the shabby carpetbag. She did not run away when he confronted her. In fact, she seemed relieved in the way she sighed and looked at him expectantly. Now they walked together down the boardwalk, saying little. Tom saw neighbors stare in curiosity from their front porches and along the street. A few said hello. Bethlehem was a friendly town, even if Sara had received little of it so far. He hoped in time she would see what a pleasant place this was and that he was pleasant, too.
“You must be hungry,” he finally said. “I know a café that serves excellent food. We’ll have to go back—it’s not far from the depot. I can see about a coach….”
“Thank you, but I’d rather walk. I walked all the time in New York.”
He wondered what sights and sounds she must have seen living in a city like that. He’d heard only vague descriptions about it from Mr. Astor, along with some photographs. Large stone buildings, some high like a mountain. Streets teeming with merchants, carriages, shoppers, businessmen. And people like Sara with little money who were all alone. She’d said her mother had died. Did she have any relatives to speak of, save for this Mrs. Whitaker who seemed to care for her a great deal? Did she have anything at all?
“So you’ve lived here all your life, Mr. Haskins?”
He liked her inquisitiveness. She was a young woman of determination and strength, even if her outward appearance didn’t seem to match it. “Yes. Bethlehem was smaller than it is now. Since my youth, many hotels and guesthouses have been built.”
“I was wondering why there are so many hotels here. It’s such a small town. I don’t see how there are enough people to fill them.”
“Bethlehem lies on a hill of sorts where the air is fresher. Some say it makes them feel better. Visitors also come to see the mountains. There’s no better place to spend a vacation. I should take you on a walk sometime to the fine view from the top of Mount Agassiz. It’s Bethlehem’s own mountain.”
“You mean actually climb a mountain?”
“Of course. Or you can take a carriage to the top. Mr. Corliss offers carriage rides. It has a fine tower where you can see the mountains of the Franconia region. A superb view, worthy of a painting, actually.” He realized then the promise he had made to Mr. Astor to paint such a scene. He must do it soon.
Sara paused in her steps as if to comprehend his descriptions. “A mountain with a tower on top? Like a stone tower?”
“Actually, it’s made of metal with a huge platform. A perfect viewpoint. I’ll take you there sometime.” Tom was surprised by the eagerness in his voice. The thought of showing Sara such a site with all its charms excited him. There were intriguing aspects to Sara’s character, he admitted. Her rustic appearance lent herself to someone who wouldn’t mind an interesting adventure. He would not have to worry about impressing her with pampering and fine things, unlike Annabelle Loving, for example, whom he couldn’t imagine climbing to the top of a mountain. Sara would appreciate nice things and a nice view after a hard life in the city. And he would enjoy giving it to her.
They arrived at the café and were greeted by several patrons indulging in afternoon tea. When they looked up and stared at the newcomer with interest, he saw lines of discomfort creasing Sara’s face.
“They look at me as if I came from some foreign land,” she murmured, settling into a seat opposite him at a small table.
“They’re only curious. I didn’t tell anyone I was having a guest. Don’t be concerned. And by the way, the apple pie here is excellent.” He gave her a menu. She seemed to look at it, but then her gaze drifted to the curtains framing the windows, the customers at their tables, and then to a large jar of hard candy sitting on the counter.
“You must have already seen something good?” he asked with a smile.
“Uh…yes, I suppose. This looks like a fine place to eat. I didn’t eat out at all in the city. Maybe only a couple times in my life.”
The server came by and asked for Sara’s selection.
“What kind of soup do you have?”
“It’s at the top of the menu there. See? The chicken vegetable and cream of potato.”
She searched about but then, noticing the server’s look, offered a sheepish smile and a flushed face. “Oh yes, thank you. I’ll have the chicken with vegetable…a nice piece of bread with butter on it…and the apple pie.”
Tom added, “For two.” He noticed the pleased look on Sara’s face when he ordered the same, as if she searched for acceptance. He tried to imagine himself in her shoes, as a visitor to the busy city of New York, and how los
t he would feel. Without a doubt, the greeting she received when she first arrived must have sent any confidence fleeing. He prayed for the words to say that would help restore what was lost. But what does one say to a young woman—especially one who had come because of a newspaper ad? Thank you for answering the ad. We will take this one day at a time, with God’s help…? By the way, answering an ad doesn’t necessarily mean a wedding ring…? He shook his head, trying to quell any negativity right away.
“You seem upset, Mr. Haskins.”
Her observation caught him to the quick. “As a matter of fact, I was trying to think of something to talk about.” He chuckled in discomfort.
“Well, since I never really introduced myself, I’ll start. Hello, I’m Sara Elisabeth McGee. I’m eighteen, nearly nineteen. I grew up on the streets of New York.” She held out her hand.
He couldn’t help but chuckle again as he shook her hand. It felt tiny and soft in his rough one. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Thomas Haskins.”
“I’ve lived in the city all my life,” she continued. “My father left us when I was a baby. My mother raised me until she died, and then Mrs. Whitaker became like a mother to me.”
“This Mrs. Whitaker seems like a kind and generous woman.”
Sara’s eyes glistened, muting the blue color of them. He admired that shade. It was often seen in the early evening sky, and he occasionally painted it into certain landscapes. “Yes, she is the sweetest person one could know. She’s the one who saw the ad in the paper and told me I should come here. She wrote the letters, too.”
“She wrote the letters? Why didn’t you write them?”
Sara played with her napkin, folding it into small squares. “I–I’m not very good with words. Mrs. Whitaker knows what to say.”
“Indeed she does. She painted a glowing portrait of you, I must say.”
“I suppose you’re disappointed that I’m not what she described.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. I meant that she has a way of describing things that are interesting to read. I can tell she is very fond of you. It must mean a great deal to you to have her for a friend.”
“I owe her so much. My life, really.” Sara paused. “After all she has done for me, I need to try to make things work here. That is, if you will give me a chance, Mr. Haskins. I only hope I don’t irritate you too much.”
Tom had opened his mouth to reply when the server arrived with their steaming bowls of soup, wedges of bread with melted butter, and two slices of apple pie. Tom offered a quick blessing for their food and then unfolded his napkin to tuck inside his shirt. Sara dispensed with the napkin, took up her spoon as if it were a club, and began slurping down the soup with gusto.
“This is good,” she said with her mouth full.
Tom stared before averting his gaze. He tried not to let the sight and her sounds aggravate him, but it was plain to see that Sara had no training in table manners. He concentrated on his own meal until Sara picked up the bowl and drank the contents in large gulps. Setting it back on the table, with bits of noodles on her chin, she sighed in content.
“That was so good. I never had such good soup.”
Tom tried to keep his attention on his meal but couldn’t help noticing the customers in the café staring at them. Whispers began. Sara then attacked her pie, eating with such large mouthfuls that the pie all but disappeared in a matter of moments.
“I guess I was hungrier than I thought,” Sara said, sitting back in her chair. She then belched. “Ah, that’s better.”
The woman at a table beside theirs leaped to her feet. Tom recognized her at once and grimaced. The dignified Mrs. Childress and town gossip. “Why, I never! You could have used a napkin, my dear girl, instead of eating like some pig. Humph.” She tossed her head and strode out, her sheepish husband following behind.
Sara sat with her mouth open and her eyes large. Her nervous gaze settled on Tom. “I–I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I don’t eat in places like this and…”
“It’s all right.” He tried to finish his meal but found his appetite squelched. The looks, the manners, the life. He could already picture the look of consternation on Mr. Astor’s face if he presented Sara as his bride. How could he possibly marry her? She was not Edward’s wife, Margaret, even if she came by way of an ad. And she certainly wasn’t Annabelle Loving. He admitted he expected a lady to arrive, one of grace and purpose, to be a partner in this lonely life. God must have meant for other things to happen. Perhaps to offer Sara the finer things of life. Maybe to have Claire help with proper table manners and other etiquette of a lady. To offer a fine dress and shoes that fit. Things that Sara would not have, living on the streets of New York.
“I’m sorry,” Sara apologized again when they left the café. “I don’t know why that lady was upset.”
“The ladies around here aren’t used to seeing…uh”—Tom hesitated—“someone enjoy their food so much. The ladies here take dainty bites. They use napkins. They hold a fork a certain way. They don’t drink out of bowls.”
“I’m expected to learn all that while I’m here?”
“It might make you feel more comfortable if you did. After all, this is not the streets. It’s different from what you know.”
“I’ve been seeing the differences all day. I wish I had known all this would happen. I might have stayed where I belong and with people who don’t care how I eat.”
“That’s a selfish way of thinking, isn’t it?”
His challenge sparked a look of defiance in her eyes. She stopped and put her hands on her hips. “I’d rather be selfish than prideful, Mr. Haskins. I’m not the same as them. I happen to be different. And maybe that isn’t a bad thing. Unless you believe it’s necessary that I think and act like everyone else.”
“Selfishness and pride go hand in hand, Sara. One can still be prideful without means as well as with. You can learn a few things so you don’t draw attention to yourself. You can try to fit in with the gifts God has given you.”
Sara resumed her pace alongside Tom. She said nothing more and, for now, silence accompanied the journey down Main Street. Tom hadn’t anticipated debating a fiery young woman about manners, but Sara had a mind of her own. Doubts plagued his heart. Nothing was as it seemed. And he didn’t quite know what to do about it, either.
He was glad to arrive home and find Claire sweeping the front porch. He couldn’t wait to give Sara over to Claire’s capable hands. Claire would know what to do.
Claire brushed back a swathe of hair from her face and offered a smile. “Why, hello. You must be Sara.”
Tom was pleased to see Sara offer her hand in a congenial manner. She did know some propriety, thankfully. Maybe all was not lost.
“I’m Sara McGee from New York City. And you are?”
Both Claire and Sara looked to Tom. He felt a warmth rise in his cheeks. “Sara, this is my sister, Claire, from Springfield, Massachusetts.”
“I came through Massachusetts on my way here,” Sara said. “I changed trains in Boston.”
“I’m sure you must be exhausted from your trip. Come in, and I’ll fix you a cup of tea.”
Tom watched in relief as Claire took charge of the situation, gesturing Sara into the house. He praised his plan in bringing his sister here to help, especially after what he’d witnessed this day. Sara would need careful tending and a compassionate hand, and there was no one better in that respect than Claire.
He slipped into a wicker chair on the porch to think about his circumstances. After a few minutes the door opened, and Claire came out. “She’s taking tea and is interested in a bath. I see she is not well-off, is she?”
“No, she’s not.”
Claire’s eyebrow rose at his stiff reply.
“I mean, she’s not what the letter said,” Tom continued. “That’s not to say she doesn’t have interesting traits. She has an excitement for life. She is determined and quite strong-willed. But she eats her food like a railroad worker and has nothi
ng to her name but what she has in that carpetbag. She’s unkempt and ill-mannered. She looks as if she has lived on the streets, which, in truth, she has.”
“So what does all that mean, dear brother?”
Tom looked at her. “What does that mean? It means we can help her. Give her a home for the time being. Maybe some lessons. Introduce her to a new way of life. Buy her some clothes and feed her good meals. But she is not someone I could ever think of marrying.”
“You’re deciding all this rather quickly, aren’t you?”
He felt his agitation rising. “Did you know she ran away from the depot? I spent over an hour searching for her.”
“Why did she run away?”
He hesitated. “You know Lawrence. He made a small comment. A few men snickered.”
Claire huffed. “Then she did the right thing. How dare those men make fun of her when she can use all the love we can give. And you, of all people, allowing them to do such a thing.”
Tom was cut to the quick. “Claire, I told them it was wrong. And I’m trying to make the best of this situation.”
“Good, because you need to stop thinking about your needs and think about hers for now. All you’ve done the last few years is paint. I know you cared for Father for a time, but now it’s time to care for another one in need. Painting some brightness in another person’s life, like Sara’s, may be just the situation you need in your life.” She rose and entered the house, her dress swishing before the door closed.
Tom knew Claire was right. He’d accused Sara of being selfish, but he was the selfish one. He’d wanted the perfect woman to step off the train this morning. Someone like…Annabelle, with refined features, in a large hat and fancy frock to match. Sipping a teacup, looking demure. From the letters, he’d thought Sara was all that and more. So much for expectations. Sara surprised him as much as the reactions surprised her. He wondered if he’d made a mistake by heeding the advice of some couple he’d met months ago in the woods.
Love Finds You in Bethlehem, New Hampshire Page 8
