An Unlikely Love

by Dorothy Clark

  Protesting women? Unease pricked him. Grant watched Thomas Hardon climb into his buggy and start his horse moving, shook off the disquiet and offered his hand to Dillon Douglas. “You have bought yourself an excellent yield of grapes, Mr. Douglas.”

  The owner of Oakwood Winery nodded, released his handshake and smiled. “Thanks to Hardon’s love of a penny and lack of stomach for a bit of trouble. Not that I expect anything to come of the rumor.”

  “Are you referring to the women Mr. Hardon spoke of? I’ve not heard anything.”

  “None of us had until this morning when Hardon told us.” Dillon Douglas’s smile turned to a frown. “Seems as if this temperance stuff going on at the Chautauqua Assembly has stirred up some of the local women. Hardon’s wife overheard some talk that a few of them were going to try and form some sort of protest march against the wineries in the area and she got all upset.” The vintner snorted, shook his head. “A lot of nonsense. I don’t know how a handful of women think they can stop us from making wine. They can march around in front of our buildings carrying signs and singing and praying till they all have blisters the size of toadstools on their feet and it won’t do them a whit of good. Our men will come to work same as always—and we’ve got no customers for them to scare off the way I’ve heard they do at taverns. Now, about the grapes...” Dillon Douglas popped one in his mouth, split another with his thumbnail and peered at the seeds. “I’ll send out notice to my pickers tomorrow, have them here with the wagons the next day.”

  “I’ll be waiting.” Grant stepped back as the older man climbed into his buggy. “They need to start with the vines that face south. The grapes there ripen a few days earlier than the rest.”

  “They’ll follow your directions as to the picking.” The owner of Oakwood Winery looked back as the horse started forward. “Tell your father I’ll be here so we can sign the contract the day the pickers start. That should get him over this bad spell he’s taken.”

  “I’ll do that.” He watched the buggy traveling down the length of the vineyard’s access road, turned and headed for the house.

  Seems as if this temperance stuff going on at Chautauqua has stirred up some of the local women. He frowned and climbed the steps of the back porch. Dillon Douglas could be more right than he knew. Grant opened the door and stepped into the kitchen thinking of Sarah Swan seated on a bench at Marissa’s lecture clutching her handkerchief and slowly nodding. Was Sarah Swan one of that handful of women?

  “How did the bidding go? Did you make a sale?”

  He glanced at his mother standing by the stove wearing her apron and an expectant expression, and smiled. “I did. And for more than Father hoped.”

  “Oh, Grant, that’s wonderful!” She laid the wooden spoon she held on a plate, skirted her worktable and went on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Your father will be so pleased!” The shadow of worry in her eyes lessened. “I’m sure the good news will make him feel better. You’ll find him in the den going over some papers. I couldn’t make him stay in bed as Dr. Fletcher ordered.” Frustration flitted across her face; the shadow returned to her eyes.

  He pulled her into a hug. “Please don’t worry. He’s strong and—”

  “Stubborn isn’t strong, Grant. It’s merely...stubborn...” She pulled back, snatched up her spoon and stirred the contents of a pot. “Now look what you’ve done. I got so excited over your good news I almost burned the pudding!” She waved her hand toward the door. “Shoo! Go tell your father the good news and leave me to my cooking.”

  * * *

  The Colonel Phillips, gleaming white in the sun, floated to a stop at the end of the dock and blasted its whistle. Shouts rang out. Marissa left the shade of the trees and walked to the dock while the crew snubbed the steamer fast and the gangway was put in place. The disturbed lake water swirled around the posts of the dock and lapped at the shoreline. She lifted her hand to shield her eyes against the brightness and watched for Mrs. Swan and the women she was bringing with her to disembark. She’d found a small canopy with a few benches nestled among the trees close to the shore they could use for their meeting—if no one had claimed it by the time they reached it.

  The figure of a tall man moved through the shadows in the recessed area of the steamer deck, and her stomach fluttered. Was Grant aboard? A wish to see him stride down the dock and smile when he spotted her rose unbidden. She smoothed back a curl, glanced down at her dark gray day dress so somber in the sunlight and wished she were wearing one of her regular gowns. Her mother said she looked her prettiest in blue or yellow.

  Well, what did that matter? She wanted no part of a romantic involvement. But Grant’s friendship was...strengthening...rewarding. And withdrawn. Her face tightened. The flutters in her stomach turned to knots. His friendship had survived her attempt to rid herself of his company, but not her lecture. There was little doubt but that her temperance advocacy had offended him. He had left her lecture before she was through speaking—before the Colonel Phillips had blown its first warning whistle. He was most likely an imbiber. How foolish was she to stand there and hope— Nothing! She didn’t want to see Grant Winston again.

  Mrs. Swan and four other women crossed over the gangway to the dock, walked to the gatehouse and filed past the window showing their passes. A quick glance at the short line behind them and the empty steamer deck confirmed that there were no more passengers waiting to disembark. Grant hadn’t come. Her wish had been granted. She would probably never see him again. She took a breath, tried to rub away the sinking feeling in her chest. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick... She jerked her hand down and forced the scripture verse from her mind. She was not hoping. It was good Grant hadn’t come. She was glad.

  The women coming toward her looked nervous. And guilty. It was a feeling she knew well. She smiled to put them at ease and stepped forward. “Good morning, Mrs. Swan...ladies. If you will come with me, I’ve found a tent we may use.”

  They followed her in silence, only the rustle of their skirt hems brushing over the grass giving testimony to their continued presence. She led them into the shade beneath the canopy and turned to face them. “Please have a seat, ladies. And let me say, before we start discussing the reason for our meeting, that I admire your courage in coming.” Her gaze trailed over their determined faces and clenched hands. “I know what your decision has cost you. The battles you have fought with yourself over feelings of guilt, betrayal...shame. And I know that only frustration and a desperate hope to find a way to help your loved one has brought you here.”

  “And hatred.” The woman sitting beside Mrs. Swan looked up at her. “A pure hatred for the wine that turned my Henry from a good husband and father into a useless drunk is why I’m here.” The woman’s eyes glistened with anger. “We lost our farm and all we had because of wine. And then it killed Henry. If my sister and her husband hadn’t taken us in, I don’t know how I’d have fed and sheltered my children. I’m married again now, but I haven’t forgotten all that was stolen from me. I’m here because I hate wine.”

  “We all do, Miss Bradley.” Mrs. Swan squared her shoulders. “I’ve read in newspaper articles from different towns that you have led protests that have closed some taverns and bars. But my husband does not go to the taverns or bars. He—he imbibes wine secretly at home and becomes...unpleasant.”

  Like Father. Anger and sorrow welled. She clenched her hands, dug her fingernails into her palms to keep from being distracted by memories.

  “That’s why I wrote asking you to lead us in a protest against the local wineries and vineyards. Will you help us, Miss Bradley?”

  She pushed her emotions aside and cleared her throat. “I have given this a good deal of thought since receiving your letter, Mrs. Swan. And while I am pleased at being given the opportunity to lead you ladies on your quest, I must be honest and tell you that I believe it doubtful that staging a protest at a winery
will stop their production of wine, or even harm their profits, as there are no patrons to be turned away as there are at taverns. The same is true of a vineyard. Therefore, if that is your goal, I believe such a protest would be useless.”

  “I see.” Mrs. Swan rose, her face a stiff mask of disappointment and frustration. “Thank you for giving us your time, Miss Bradley.” The older woman faced her friends. “Well, it seems if we are to make our message known, we must do this on our own, ladies. Who—”

  “You mistake me, Mrs. Swan.”

  The leader of the women turned back to face her, a tentative hope in her eyes. Marissa smiled reassurance and swept her gaze over the small group. “I was not declining to lead your protest, ladies. I was merely pointing out its limitations, lest you were hoping to financially hurt the wineries or vineyards and force their closure. I believe that the best result a small group like ours—” relief flickered across the women’s faces as she aligned herself with them “—can hope to achieve with such a protest is to call the public’s attention to the pain and destruction the wine produced by the vineyards and wineries can bring to men and families and hope that message will save others from the pain you have suffered.”

  She took a breath and searched the women’s faces. “Temperance marches are growing in importance. Have you considered that word of your protest will spread? That, if we are successful, it may even be reported in the newspapers? That is how you learned my name. Before we go forward, you must each decide if you are willing to face that possibility.”

  Mrs. Swan firmed her lips and nodded. “I am. I have lived hiding the truth long enough.”

  “And me.”

  One by one the ladies gave their affirmation.

  “Very well, then.” She brushed back a curl tickling her cheek and searched her memory. “Every temperance protest I’m aware of has been made with the intention of closing down taverns and bars and other places where strong drink is sold. I cannot recall any temperance march against those who produce the strong drink. But I believe there will be many such protests to follow this one. You are pioneers leading the way, ladies! Now, my time here at Chautauqua is short, so let’s discuss the matter and plan the protest in detail. I am unfamiliar with the workings of a winery, so please offer any suggestions you might have for the group’s consideration. And when you speak, please tell me your name.” She nibbled at her lower lip, ordered her thoughts. “Our goal will be to disrupt and trouble the business and thus draw attention to the wine they produce and its debilitating effects. I see no possibility of that with a vineyard, short of uprooting their grapevines which, of course, we would not do. Perhaps we should focus on the wineries—”

  “If I may?”

  She glanced at the blonde woman seated on the second bench. “Yes, Mrs....”

  “Jefferson. But please call me Ina.” The woman moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “As you were speaking about the goal being to disrupt business, it occurred to me that there is a way to do that to both a winery and a vineyard at the same time.”

  “Both of them at once? That would be wonderful!” She smiled encouragement. “How would we do that, Ina?”

  The women on the front bench shifted around to look at their friend.

  “Well, harvest season is beginning. That means the vintners will soon be buying grapes and sending their pickers and wagons out to the vineyards to gather them and bring them back to the winery. If we were to go to the vineyard when the winery wagons were there—”

  “My stars!”

  “If we could stop those loaded wagons—”

  The excitement was catching. She hated to quench the women’s enthusiasm, but there was one obvious flaw. “I agree it would be the perfect plan, ladies. But we would need to know when a winery’s wagons would be at a particular vineyard.”

  “I can tell you that.” The young woman sitting at the end of the front bench scooted to the edge and all but bounced with excitement. “I’m Judith Moore. And my sister is being courted by a man who works for the Oakwood Winery. He told her that tomorrow night would be the last night he could call on her for a while, as they were going to start harvesting at the Twin Eagle Vineyard the next day and he will be driving one of the wagons.”

  “That vineyard is close enough to town we could walk there.”

  “Should we carry signs?”

  “Everyone in town would see us.”

  “Which is the purpose of a temperance march.” Marissa studied the women who had gone suddenly silent. “This sounds perfect for our purposes, ladies. Unless you have changed your minds about holding a protest?”

  Mrs. Swan shook her head. “I haven’t changed my mind. It’s sobering to think of all that might befall, is all.” The older woman squared her shoulders. “I’ll make signs on wrapping paper from the store. And there’s some wood from crates out back we can use to hold them.”

  “There’s some paint left from when Carl painted the barn we can use. I’ll help you, Sarah.”

  “And me.”

  Marissa frowned and stepped in with a warning. “You must keep the protest a secret, ladies. So we catch our target unaware.”

  Sarah Swan nodded, then glanced at her friends. “Come to my house tomorrow night. And bring your sewing so we’re not discovered.”

  “Well, it seems most of the details of the march are taken care of, save one important one.” Marissa smiled to hide her trepidation at the thought of getting on the steamer for the trip to Mayville. “When and where shall we gather to begin our march, ladies?”

  * * *

  The heated temperance debate had stopped. The crowd was thinning fast, drawn away by the singing group that was the night’s entertainment if the bits of conversation swirling around him were any indication. Grant fastened his gaze on Marissa and moved forward against the flow, holding his stride in check, lest his eagerness cause him to bump into someone. He’d missed being with her. Ridiculous after knowing her for so short a time, but there it was.

  The women she was talking with nodded and walked away. “Marissa...”

  Her body stiffened. He braced himself and prepared to apologize for his faux pas the last time they’d been together, unwilling to accept rejection. She turned and looked up at him. His pulse kicked. He drank in the warmth in her eyes, puzzled over her tentative smile.

  “Good evening, Grant. Was there something you wanted?”

  Her posture was stiff, almost...defensive, her tone polite. But the warmth, the gladness in her eyes when she’d turned and seen him gave the lie to it all. “Yes. To apologize again for my lack of manners the other night—”

  She shook her head. “My fault entirely. I should not have—”

  “Marissa—” He reached for her arm, stopped, dropped his hand to his side and rushed to get out his apology before she interrupted him again. “I have never thought of you as anything but a proper young lady who was kind enough to bend the rules of propriety a little because of the special circumstances of the Chautauqua Assembly in order to accommodate the wishes of this young man who thoroughly enjoys your company and hopes you will not deny him that pleasure. Which brings me to my second purpose.” He stretched his right leg out behind him and made her a deep, sweeping bow, ending with his hand over his heart. Please let the humor work, Lord. He raised his voice to a normal level again. “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me on a stroll along the shore?”

  “Get up before someone sees you!” Her cheeks flamed.

  “Not until you agree, my lady.” He faked a wobble, flailed his arms.

  “Stop! I’ll walk with you.” She huffed the words, but her lips were twitching.

  He grinned, straightened and offered her his arm. She caught at her lower lip with her teeth, worried it a moment then took her place beside him.

  “Do you always resort to blackmail
to win your way, Grant?”

  “Never before, Marissa.” He guided her onto the main path and headed down the hill. “You test my ingenuity.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  He chuckled, sucked in air when she gave him a sidewise glance. “I came to your lecture the other night.” Her hand stiffened on his arm.

  “I know. I saw you standing by the post.”

  Something was wrong. She’d gone all distant and defensive on him again. Had she not liked his being there? “You made a strong argument.”

  “It’s not an argument to me. It’s my life.”

  The quiet words carried bitterness, a burden of grief and sorrow. Her hand twitched. He tightened his arm against his side lest she try and pull her hand away. “You mentioned your brother again tonight during your lecture. I’m sorry for your loss, Marissa. Is your brother the reason you joined the Temperance Movement? I know it’s hard when—”

  “A man’s death is unnecessary? When you learn your brother has been drinking and you run to the tavern to get him, to beg him to stop, and—” Her voice broke. She pressed her lips together, shook her head.

  He pulled her off the crowded path into a small cleared area with a bench, halted and looked down at her. “What happened, Marissa? I’m not merely being curious. I’d like to understand—if it’s not too painful for you to talk about.”

  She stared up at him for a moment, then nodded, stepped to the bench and took hold of the back rail. “I didn’t know Lincoln had taken to drink. When I was told, I ran to the inn to stop him, to remind him of our father. I was too late. Lincoln came staggering out of the inn, fell off the walkway in front of a passing carriage and the life was crushed from him by the horse’s hoofs.” She blinked, gulped in air. “He was my brother. And I couldn’t save him.”