The pain in her voice was like a live thing he could feel. “And so you joined the Temperance Movement to try and save others like him.”
“Yes. But not for Lincoln alone. For my father and my mother and all those like them, as well.” She glanced up, met his gaze and looked back down at the bench. “The innkeeper took me home, and I went to my parents’ room to tell them about Lincoln. My father was...asleep from the wine he’d been drinking all evening, and my mother was huddled in her rocker crying from the black eye he’d given her.” Her grip on the bench tightened. He stepped close and placed his hand over hers, longing to take her in his arms and hold her until her sorrow and grief eased.
“Mother’s eye was still swollen and discolored when she stood by Lincoln’s grave. But she wore a mourning hat with a black veil that hid it. She’s clever at doing that. Wearing clothes to hide her bruises and pretending there’s nothing wrong, I mean. So was I. But I don’t do that any longer.”
Her father beat her? Anger soared. “Marissa...”
She jerked her hand away, grabbed a handful of her long black skirt then thrust it from her. “I hate wine, and I hate this gown. Every time I wear it I remember Lincoln, and my father and mother and all that wine has cost me.”
Wine. That niggling unease he’d experienced since her lecture returned. How would she feel about his family owning a vineyard?
“But I’m not hiding the truth any longer. It’s worth the discomfort if I can save someone else from—from what my family has endured.” She drew a breath, looked up at him. “And now you know about me. But I know little about you—what you do apart from attending science classes here at Chautauqua, and swimming in your pond.” She smiled, smoothed back a curl the way his mother patted at her hair when she was nervous, or wanted to change the topic of conversation. “Have you a family, Grant?”
“My parents. I’m an only child.” She winced, and he could have bit off his tongue for reminding her that she no longer had a sibling. He glanced down at the lovely enamel watch pinned to her bodice. Time was growing short; the Colonel Phillips would be blasting its whistle soon and there was so much he needed to tell her. Lord, please make her understand my situation. “That’s the reason I’m only able to come to Chautauqua in the evenings. You see, when I was fifteen, my father had an accident that left him crippled and unable to run the...family business.” Interest flickered in her eyes. “The responsibility fell on me, so I gave up my plan to study to become a scientist and took over the physical work. Father, though he suffers from spells of ill health, still manages the business.”
“You wanted to be a scientist?” Curiosity shone in her beautiful blue eyes.
He nodded, slanted his lips into a grin. “I’m a man who likes to find answers to problems.”
“Your parents must be very proud and thankful to have a son willing to forgo his dream to provide for their needs. I hope your father doesn’t suffer unduly.”
“The spells are coming more frequently of late.” A frisson of concern drew his eyebrows down into a frown. “That’s why I was unable to come to Chautauqua yesterday. My father had one of his spells and I had to keep his business appointment.”
She nodded understanding. “Your fascination with science must come second to your responsibilities.”
The steamer blew its first warning.
He was beginning to hate that whistle.
“It’s time for you to go.” She looked disappointed.
His pulse quickened. “Marissa, I need to—”
She shook her head. A smile played at the corners of her lips. “I shall find my own way to my tent. It’s not far.”
“That’s not what I was going to say.” He pulled in a breath, held her gaze with his. “Marissa, I’m the caretaker of my father’s vineyard.”
She went perfectly still, stared at him. “A vineyard...” She took a step back.
He followed, took hold of her upper arms. “Marissa, please...my time is fleeting and I’ve so much more I want to say. But I can’t come to see you for the next few days. The pickers are coming to start tomorrow and I have to be there to oversee the harvesting of the grapes. Father is unwell, and it’s my responsibility.” He looked down at her pale face, the shock in her eyes, and pressed his case. “I hope you will allow me to call on you when I am able, to give me a chance to explain—”
The steamer blew its second warning. He had no more time to convince her with words. He pulled her close, slid his hands down her arms and grasped her hands, hoping she would believe him sincere. “I’ll be back in a few days, Marissa. And we’ll talk more.”
He ran for the path, glanced back. Marissa was staring after him, her face stiff with shock, one hand pressed to her chest and the other gripping the rail of the bench. “I’ll be back!” He turned and charged downhill.
Chapter Six
Today’s lecture had gone well. And she hadn’t felt nearly as uneasy riding the steamer this time. Now, if the protest march would go as well...
Marissa gripped the rail and watched the people making their way toward the dock, summoned by the blast of the Colonel Phillips’s whistle. Sunlight sparkled on the water, but its warmth was waning and it would be dusk when she made her return trip to Chautauqua. She should have thought to bring a wrap. The steamer lurched, slowed and slipped alongside the Mayville dock, lake water slapping at its sides.
I’m the caretaker of my father’s vineyard.
She caught her breath and glanced at the road that passed between the railroad station and a hotel, followed its wide curve into a sloping climb to the top of the low hill. I live in Mayville and our home is not on Chautauqua Lake, though our land borders it. Her stomach churned. She took a firmer grip on the rail and searched the shoreline for grapevines. Grant was a vineyard owner. And he’d had to stay home today to oversee the harvest of his grapes. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, hoped for the hundredth time that Grant’s vineyard wasn’t the one Judith Moore had been talking about yesterday. It was a selfish wish. Grapes were grapes no matter who grew them. And grapes made wine. She’d reminded herself of that fact every time she relived Grant’s words through her long, sleepless night.
“All ashore for Mayville!”
The call settled like a rock in her stomach. How could someone be reluctant and eager at the same time? She frowned and pushed back her windblown curls, ran her hand down the front of the skirt of her plum-colored day dress and joined the passengers gathering into a loose cluster at the head of the gangway. A young gentleman doffed his hat and smiled. “After you, miss.”
She stepped cautiously, kept her gaze fastened on the plank at her feet and released her breath when she stepped onto the dock. The short, ruffle-trimmed train of her gown slipped off the white-painted gangplank and whispered over the weathered wood as she made her way forward. A dozen or so canoes and rowboats tied to the long dock bobbed gently on the waves splashing against the pilings and rolling under the dock on their way to the shore. She moved closer to the center and wished the two women in front of her would walk faster.
“Miss Bradley!”
Ina Jefferson stood apart from the people waiting to board the steamer. Marissa hurried to her side and smiled. “Thank you for coming to meet me. Is everything ready?”
“Yes, indeed. Lily and Judith were already at the store shopping and visiting with Sarah when I passed by on my way here. Susan will be there when we arrive. It’s a bit of a walk...all uphill once we reach the curve in the road.”
“Yes, I noticed that.” She shoved all thought of Grant from her mind and focused on the coming protest. “I’m ready. Shall we be on our way?”
* * *
“The harvest is going well.” Grant took a swallow of lemonade, eyed his father over the top of his glass. He looked...frail. Not a word associated with Andrew Winston. “The wagons shou
ld be on their way to the winery in less than an hour. I figure the concords should all be picked in another two days.”
“The catawbas be ready by then?”
Something was wrong. His father was trying to hide it, but there was worry in his eyes. He glanced over at his mother and swallowed back the questions he wanted to ask. There was no sense in adding to her concern for his father. He drained his glass and set it on the table. Perhaps his news would ease his father’s mind. “No. The vines on the east slope will be ready in about a week, perhaps a day or two earlier if the weather holds. They’ll have a decent yield. But the other vines—those that survived but were damaged by the killing cold—have a limited yield. Mr. Douglas looked at the catawbas again after your meeting this morning. He’ll buy them, but for a lower price because of the difficulty in picking.”
“I expected that. Dillon Douglas likes to squeeze a nickel tight as the next man.” His father looked down, swirled the lemonade in his glass. “Best we can do, I guess. It’ll help.”
Help? With what? He needed to have a private talk with his father. “Well, I only came in to let you know the harvest is going well. And to tell you Douglas will stop by with another contract for the catawbas. I’ve got to get back to work. It’ll be dusk soon and they’ll start loading the wagons.” He stepped out onto the back porch, shrugged off his unease and trotted down the steps. He’d confront his father about what was wrong tonight, after the pickers had gone.
The lowering sun warmed his shoulders, threw his shadow before him as he strode down the stone walk to the bottom of the hill where the pickers were working.
“Winston!”
He pivoted, stared at the vintner striding down the path between the concords and the old vines. The man was scowling. Grant started up the slope to meet him. “I didn’t expect to see you again until tomorrow, Mr. Douglas. Is there a problem?”
“Not yet. But it looks as if one is on the way.” Dillon Douglas shifted his gaze toward the access road. “Those wagons loaded?”
“No. The filled baskets are sitting in the rows waiting to be carried to the wagons when there’s enough for a full load—the same as always. They should have enough baskets filled by dusk. It’s been a good day.” He glanced at the sky. There wasn’t a rain cloud in sight. “What’s the problem, Mr. Douglas?”
“Them women!” Dillon Douglas snorted. “Hardon’s wife was right. There’s six of them marching through town on their way here. All carrying signs and singing hymns! Riling up the whole town! Everybody’s going out on the street to watch them.”
“Here? Why would the women come here? Your winery is—”
“Useless without grapes.” The vintner narrowed his eyes and leaned toward him. “Your grapes, at the moment, Winston. Sitting in those baskets—” Dillon Douglas shot out his hand and pointed “—waiting to be hauled to my winery. It seems it’s not only the wineries they’re after. They’re marching against vineyards, too. And they’re on their way.”
Suspicion reared. “You said six women, Douglas. Is Sarah Swan among them?”
“She’s marching in the lead beside some young woman I don’t know. And you can be sure Toby doesn’t know it! Why, he’d—” Dillon Douglas chopped his hand through the air and started back up the hill. “You build a fire under those pickers and get those wagons loaded, Winston. I want them out of here! There’s no telling what those women have in mind.” The vintner pulled the contract for the concords from his pocket and waved it in the air. “And remember, no grapes, no payment!”
He clenched his hands to keep from grabbing hold and shaking Douglas. That money had to keep them through the next year. And his father was already worried about something. Likely that demand note he’d taken out last year. He pivoted on his heel and started toward the pickers. He had to think of something. And quick.
She’s marching in the lead beside some young woman I don’t know.
The memory of Sarah Swan at the temperance lecture turned his suspicion to certainty. It was Marissa. It had to be. But what could—
“Douglas!” The vintner halted, turned toward him. He closed the distance between them at a run. “I’ve an idea. You said Toby wouldn’t know about Sarah marching. And I agree. He’d never stand for it. It would be bad for business.”
“What of it? You’re wasting time, Winston. Get those pickers—”
“Hear me out! I doubt the other husbands would know or approve, either. Why don’t you go tell them and arrange a little march of your own...” He nodded as understanding broke across Dillon Douglas’s face.
“It just might work, Winston. Good thinking!” The vintner grinned and thumped him on his shoulder. “You get those wagons loaded and I’ll get the husbands. But there’s one woman I don’t know.”
I do. “You leave her to me.”
“Fair enough. I’ll be back as soon as I gather up all the husbands!”
He nodded and ran toward the pickers, anger spurring him on. He hoped he was wrong, but his gut told him he wasn’t. Marissa had to have had this march planned last night when he’d told her about his family owning a vineyard. And she’d never said a word...Yes, she had.
I hate wine. Her soft, choked voice echoed in his head.
And, evidently, vineyard owners, too. Including him. How could he have been so wrong about her? His face tightened. “You men!” The pickers straightened, their heads and shoulders appearing above the lush green vines. He raised his voice so the men in the far rows would hear him. “Start loading the wagons! Mr. Douglas wants them out of here now!”
* * *
“Onward, Christian Soldiers, marching as to war...” Marissa glanced at Sarah Swan singing and marching beside her. The woman’s hands were white with strain from holding the sign she carried so tightly. It was the perfect slogan for their purpose. Grapes Make Wine and Wine Makes Trouble and Sorrow. But it was obvious from the older woman’s grim expression that it was more than a slogan to her.
She glanced up at her placard and wished again that she’d been given a different one to carry. Lips That Touch Wine Shall Never Touch Mine. She winced inwardly. She understood the sentiment, but it was too...personal. Especially after last night. Grant owned a vineyard; he would surely drink wine. And he— No! No more dwelling on foolish romantic dreams about Grant Winston. She had to forget him.
A house stood on their right, square and solid and somehow proud. She focused her attention on the home to drive out the unwelcome thoughts. It had a vine-draped front porch, ocher-painted clapboard siding and a deep overhang on the tin-covered hip roof that shaded the second-story windows. No one came out of the house to watch them as they passed. Were they standing back out of sight and watching them march by with tight-pressed lips or smiles?
“We’re almost there. That is the access road to the vineyard just ahead.”
Sarah Swan’s grim tone drew her back to their purpose. She looked forward. A dirt path led off to the right, guarded by a carved wooden sign declaring the land belonged to the Twin Eagle Vineyard. She stiffened her back and squared her shoulders, sang with more fervor.
The path parted fields of trellised grapevines, laden with bunches of light pink fruit that flowed over the brink of a hill. Over top of the abundant vines she could see the sparkling water of Chautauqua Lake at a short distance.
Our home is not on Chautauqua Lake, though our land borders it.
Her stomach knotted. Did these vines go all the way to the lake? She tightened her grip on her sign and walked toward the crest of the hill. Dust swirled up from the path, settled like powder on the bottom of her long plum-colored skirt. She looked down, came to an abrupt stop.
“Oh, look! We’re right on time! There are the Oakwood Winery wagons. Over there—at the bottom of the hill.” Lily Edmunds dipped her sign in that direction.
The sign bearing the words Help Us S
ave Our Children. Stop Making Wine flashed in front of her, blocking her view. It didn’t matter. She’d already seen the loaded wagons—and the tall, broad-shouldered man waving them forward. She closed her eyes, hoped...prayed. Let me be wrong, Lord. Please let me be wrong.
“They’re starting up the hill!”
“What shall we do?”
There was panic in the women’s voices. She clamped a firm hold on her emotions and faced them. “We shall do what we came to do, ladies. Come with me to where we can’t be seen.” She led them to a spot a short distance from the road entrance. “This is where we will make our stand. We are going to place ourselves in a line across this road and keep those wagons from leaving. Those grapes will not make wine!”
Wagons creaked. Horses’ hoofs thudded against dirt. The wagons were getting close.
“Sarah, you stand with me in the middle.” She grabbed the older woman’s hand and pulled her into place, took two steps to her right. “Lily and Ina, you take up places on the other side of Sarah.” She waved her hand to the left. “Judith and Susan, you do the same on my right.”
She watched the women hurry into place, then swept her gaze over each of them. “Perfect, ladies. Now, remember—don’t move!”
“But the horses!”
Lily Edmunds gave a most unladylike snort. “You’d do better to worry about the driver, Ina. The horses won’t hurt you.”
Hoofs thudded. The bobbing heads of a team of horses showed over the crown of the hill.
“Ready, ladies?” Marissa drew herself to her full height, squared her shoulders and lifted her sign high as the horses came plodding over the crest dragging the loaded wagon behind them. “Onward, Christian Soldiers, marching as to war...” Her voice rang out clear. The other women followed her lead and burst into song.
An Unlikely Love Page 8
