Six steps took her from one side of the tent to the other. She turned, careful not to bump against the small writing desk, and walked back again. It was not very satisfactory pacing, but she couldn’t stay in bed. She had to move. At least with the moonlight shining on the canvas she could see well enough.
Would you do me the honor of addressing me by my given name?
She frowned, fiddled with the top button on her dressing gown. Had she done the right thing when she agreed to Grant’s request? And to meet him at the hotel at dusk tomorrow? Oh, what had she been thinking! She did not want to demean herself in Grant Winston’s eyes. She wanted him to respect her. To hold her in high regard. To—her breath caught—to be attracted to her as she was to him.
She stopped, clasped her face in her hands and blew out a breath. Had she lost all common sense? She knew nothing about Grant Winston except that he was handsome and charming, polite and thoughtful and kind...And that he lived in Mayville and knew how to swim.
What if he indulged in wine or other strong drink?
The thought wouldn’t be denied. It hung there in her mind. She closed her eyes, wrapped her arms about herself and endured the pain of the memories that swarmed in silence. There was no room in the tent for tears.
The sadness and grief drove her back to her cot. She curled up under the covers and stared at the canvas wall. How could she have allowed herself to become so besotted by the beauty of the warm August night and her foolish, romantic dream—so enraptured by Grant’s sudden appearance and charm that she forgot the promise she’d made herself—that she’d never fall in love, never marry? She knew what could happen. Her father was charming, too. Until he drank wine. And Lincoln—
She curled tighter, pressed her hand over her mouth to hold back the sobs pushing up her throat. She would meet Grant Winston at the hotel tomorrow night as she promised. And she would tell him that her lectures were to begin the following day and she would not have time to see him again. It was better...safer for her that way. And nothing, not even Grant Winston, must be allowed to interfere with her work, to dilute her concentration on her message.
* * *
“Good afternoon, Miss...Bradley, is it?”
Marissa looked up from the paper she held and gave the older woman coming into the small, shaded clearing a polite smile. How did the woman know her name? Her memory clicked. Ah, the teachers meeting. “Yes, Bradley is correct. How may I help you, Mrs. Austin?”
“If you wouldn’t mind sharing your bench for a brief spell, my dear? The woman smiled and leaned on an ebony walking stick. “I’m afraid this hill is a little too much for me to manage in one try. I find I must pause and let my breath catch up to me every so often.”
“It is a bit steep in places. I’m sure that’s the reason for these strategically placed benches.” She moved toward the end of the wood bench and pulled her skirt close. “Please sit down and rest yourself.”
Mrs. Austin sat, leaned back and sighed. “My weary body and sore feet thank you.” She gestured toward the paper with the knob of her walking stick. “I’m sorry to disturb your reading, Miss Bradley. Do go on with it. I shall remain silent.”
“No please, that’s not necessary, Mrs. Austin. I will be glad of your company.” She folded the paper, looked up and smiled. “I have been studying these lecture notes all day. A break from them will be very welcome, I assure you.”
The woman nodded, leaned her walking stick against her knees and reached up to adjust the pin in her flower-bedecked hat. “There is keen interest in your lecture tomorrow afternoon, Miss Bradley. Temperance is an issue that touches us all. And people have strong opinions about it—both for and against.”
And have no trouble expressing them. “That’s certainly true.” She straightened, stared at the woman. “If I may ask, how did you know I am lecturing on temperance, Mrs. Austin? The lecturers’ names are not printed on the schedules.”
“I recognized your name when you introduced yourself to me yesterday. My daughter attended a lecture you gave in Dunkirk. She wrote me all about you. She’s here with me.” Mrs. Austin’s blue-gray eyes focused a kindly gaze on her. “As we learned during the teachers’ meeting, debate is to be encouraged after a lecture is concluded. Are you prepared for that, my dear? Your speaking engagements thus far have been to small welcoming women’s church groups. That will not be the case here. These lectures are open to all, men and women. And temperance is such a volatile subject.”
“Yes...” What if the debate got out of hand? What if she couldn’t handle it? She drew a breath, opened the drawstring on her purse and slipped her notes inside.
Mrs. Austin reached over and rested her gloved hand on hers. “It was not my intent to discomfort you when I proposed your name to John as a worthy speaker on temperance, my dear. But now, since I’ve met you, well...you look so young, close to my daughter’s age. Please forgive this meddlesome old woman for putting you in a position that may be...upsetting.”
So it was Mrs. Austin who had recommended her. “There’s no need, Mrs. Austin.” She tamped down her nerves and pulled up a smile. “I thank you for telling Dr. Austin about me—for gaining me the opportunity to spread the temperance message to so many people. And I appreciate your thoughtfulness in warning me of possible unpleasantness during a debate. But I have faced irate saloon owners and their equally angry patrons and survived. I am sure I will survive the lectures and debates here at Chautauqua, as well.” And the protest she was to lead?
“Here you are, Mother. I despaired of finding you. It’s time you returned to our tent for supper.”
Marissa turned her head, looked at a young woman who stood at the edge of the clearing, her back to the people walking on the path behind her. She took in the young woman’s cowed posture, the shawl draped around her thin shoulders though the day was warm, the downward cast of her eyes. She looked closer, gripped her hands together.
Mrs. Austin stirred beside her. “I’m coming, Rose. I’ve been resting here with Miss Bradley. You remember her from—”
“Yes, of course I do, Mother.”
The young woman gave her a polite nod and a shy smile but made no effort to come closer. It wouldn’t have mattered. She could see the fading bruise beneath Rose’s blue-gray eyes so like Mrs. Austin’s—except for the shadow of fear in them. Her heart squeezed. She smiled and nodded a return greeting, remained seated despite her desire to go and put her arms about the young woman. It was obvious Rose was uncomfortable and only wanted to leave. How well she understood Rose’s need to hide. She reached up and touched her mother’s pendant watch, closed her fingers around it.
“I will be praying for you, Miss Bradley.” Mrs. Austin gripped her walking stick, rose and looked down at her. The older woman’s face was taut, her eyes overbright. “May the Lord bless you for what you are doing on behalf of women everywhere, Miss Bradley. And may He give you courage and strength as you carry on.”
Her throat swelled. Her chest tightened. “Thank you, Mrs. Austin.” She smiled and rose to her feet. “I hope we meet again before the Chautauqua classes are over and we all go our separate ways.”
“Oh, you may rely on that, Miss Bradley.” The older woman’s eyes flashed, her mouth firmed. “Rose and I will both be attending your lectures. And taking part in the after debates. A woman can stay silent only so long! Good evening.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Austin.” She resumed her seat on the bench and waited while Mrs. Austin and her daughter joined the flow of people going up the hill.
Debate is to be encouraged after a lecture is concluded...temperance is such a volatile subject...
Her stomach knotted. She took a breath and straightened, ran her fingers over the smooth enamel of her mother’s watch. Her mother had eyes like Rose’s—except they were green. Once they had sparkled with laughter; now they were shadowed with grief and fear.
Don’t go to Chautauqua, Marissa. Please don’t go. Stop this insane traveling around to strange towns to speak about temperance. You cannot bring Lincoln back, and you may be hurt!
The memory of her mother’s plea brought the answer she hadn’t given bursting forth in a furious whisper. “What does it matter if I am made uncomfortable, or even injured, Mother? It is far less than you and other women like you suffer! And if it helps to stop young men like Lincoln from wasting or losing their lives—” Her voice broke on a sob. She spun about so those walking on the path couldn’t see, covered her face with her hands and waited for the pain to ease.
Muted chatter and laughter came from the people on the path. Birds twittered. A chipmunk rustled through the dry fallen leaves looking for provender. She drank in the peace, absorbed the strength of it into her heart. The tears on her cheeks dried. She clasped her hands in her lap and closed her eyes.
“Lord, please help me when I speak tomorrow evening and the days following. Please don’t let me disappoint Mrs. Austin and Rose and all of the other women who are ashamed or afraid and need someone to speak for them. Please let these lectures bring them comfort and strength in the knowledge that they are not alone. And please let them steer young men like Lincoln away from paths of destruction. Amen.”
Fresh dedication to the temperance cause erased her fears and strengthened her determination. She opened her eyes and glanced up at the sky. The light was beginning to fade. But there was still time to go to the tent and freshen up before going to the hotel to meet Grant Winston.
She rose and shook out the skirt of her plum gown, closing her mind to the question of why freshening her appearance should matter when she was only going to tell Grant goodbye.
* * *
Grant’s strides ate up the distance to the hotel. The science class had been interesting, but disappointing as far as information about improving crops was concerned. So far he had learned nothing with which to counter his father’s continued assertions that he was wasting his time coming to the Chautauqua classes.
A crowd blocked the intersection of paths ahead. People milled about waiting to get into The Hotel. Others came out and walked across the clearing to the path.
He swept his gaze over the moving lines, frowned and looked to the side of the building. Marissa was talking with an older woman. She glanced around and their gazes met. His heart slammed against his rib cage. He yanked his hat from his head and started toward her, an eagerness to be with her driving his steps.
She said something to the woman, lifted her hems and came toward him, a picture of shyness and dignity that stole into his thudding heart.
“Good evening. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting, Marissa.” Pink flowed into her cheeks when he spoke her name. His fingers crunched the brim of his homburg. He put it back on his head out of danger.
“Not at all. I only arrived a few minutes ago.” She looked down, brushed at the front of her long skirt.
He pulled his gaze from the mass of blond curls that fell to her shoulders from under the small excuse for a hat she wore, and looked toward the building. “I didn’t have time last night to make proper plans. Would you like to get something to eat?” She looked up, and his mouth went so dry he’d have choked on a bite of food.
“Thank you, but I was uncertain about our...plans, also, so I dined earlier with my tent mate.” She took a breath. “Mr. Winston, I—”
“Grant.” The pink spread across her cheeks again. He made a manly effort to ignore her blush. It was either that or give up breathing. “We seem to be blocking the exit route standing here.” He smiled and offered her his arm.
She looked up at him, started to say something, then glanced at the people coming out of the hotel and slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow.
He had the distinct impression she’d been about to refuse his company. He started across the clearing toward the downhill path before she could change her mind. “I’m afraid our choice of entertainment is sparse. We can go to the drawing class being offered by Mr. Paul Frank. Or perhaps go for a walk.” He looked down at her and grinned. “I’m doubtful you would like to go rowing on the lake.”
“You are correct, sir.” She tugged him to a halt, a small frown creasing her brow. “Grant, I need to—” Her frown deepened. He watched fascinated as she nibbled at her lower lip with her teeth. “Did you say the artist conducting the drawing class is Mr. Paul Frank, the famous caricaturist?”
“That is my understanding.” He’d never known God made eyelashes so long...
She sighed, seemed to come to a decision. “Then I should very much like to attend his class. Do you know where it is being held?”
“I do. But that knowledge is not necessary. All we need do is to follow the largest crowd. And that would be this way.” He guided her off the downhill path and they followed a long line of people to an enormous canopy ringed with posts capped by blazing torches.
A large blackboard, a small table covered with crocks and boxes and a wooden chair were on a platform in front of long rows of benches. Posts with lanterns atop them lit the platform and shone on a small, portly gentleman standing in front of the blackboard and speaking.
“—call out as soon as you recognize what or who I am drawing.”
Grant looked over the filled benches and frowned. “I’m afraid we’re too late to find a seat under the canopy. But I see something that might serve. Be careful of the uneven ground.” He took her elbow and led her to a small rise off to the side of the structure.
“It’s a chicken!” A man in the audience shouted out the guess.
They paused, looked toward the platform.
“A chicken?” The artist stepped back from his work, raised his hands into the air and gave an exaggerated shrug. “Is my drawing that bad?” Laughter erupted.
Grant glanced at the disconnected lines on the blackboard, shrugged and started forward again. “It looks like a chicken to me.”
She shook her head. “If it’s a chicken, what is that wavy line at the bottom?”
He stopped himself from taking a deep sniff of the lavender scent that rose from her hair, glanced at the blackboard again and grinned. “A broken branch?”
“A branch? Is that the best you can do, O ye of little imagination?”
He pulled his eyebrows down in a mock scowl. “You cast aspersions on my artistic sensibilities?”
“Not at all. There’s no need. Your lack thereof is evident.” She grinned and nodded toward the blackboard. “Mr. Frank is drawing a woman’s hat. That wavy line is the brim.”
He stopped, gave a soft cackle and flapped his elbows. “Chicken!”
Her laughter was like music. She patted her head. “Hat!”
“We shall see.”
“Indeed, we shall.” She looked back toward the canopy. “This is much better than if we had stayed in the back. I can see over the heads of everyone.”
“Good.” He removed his coat, spread it over the leaf-strewn ground at their feet and made her an exaggerated bow. “Your seat awaits—if you don’t mind sitting on the ground, that is.” He held his hand out to her. She looked at it, caught at her lower lip with her teeth. The impression came again that she was about to refuse. He braced himself.
“As long as the ground doesn’t quiver.” She gave a little laugh and placed her hand on his.
It was trembling. The slight tremors traveled all the way to his toes. Blushes. Trembling. Miss Marissa Bradley was not as calm and detached as she acted. So why was she feigning disinterest? He curled his fingers around her soft, delicate hand, helped her seat herself on his coat, then lowered himself to the ground as close to her as he dared.
“It’s my hat!”
A woman on a front bench shrieked out the words.
“You’re right, madam. And this...is
you.” The artist connected two lines, and the face of a woman appeared beneath a hat trimmed with feathers. The audience burst into applause.
Marissa shot him a smug look from the corners of her eyes and grinned.
His pulse leaped. He returned her grin and shrugged. “I’ll get this next one.” He pulled his face into a mock frown, stared at the new lines on the blackboard and stroked his chin. “I’ve got it!” He leaned forward and placed his lips close to her ear. “It’s a chicken.”
She burst into laughter.
He sat and drank in the sight of her. He could look at her all night.
“It’s amazing how Mr. Frank does that.” She tilted her head, studied the blackboard, then looked at him and shook her head. “I believe, this time, your ‘chicken’ is a man.”
He narrowed his eyes at the blackboard. “And I believe you may be right.” He pulled his eyebrows into another mock scowl. “It’s beginning to look like President George Washington—with a chicken feather in his hat.”
She glanced over at him, her eyes twinkling. “A plume straight from his plantation no—”
Two quick blasts from a steamer’s whistle rent the air. A few people rose from their seats and made their way into the aisles between the rows of benches.
“Alas, we shall never know. That’s the warning from the Colonel Phillips.” He looked up at the sky and frowned. “The lanterns make the canopy area so bright I lost track of the time.”
He rose and helped her to her feet. His pulse raced at the feel of her hands in his. He locked his gaze on hers and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to make you miss the rest of the entertainment, Marissa, but I’ve only time enough to walk you to your tent before I leave.”
“That’s not necessary.” She lowered her gaze and gave a little tug. He relaxed his grip, and she slipped her hands from his, stepped back and shook out her long skirts. “You’d best hurry.”
An Unlikely Love Page 5
