“No.” She pointed to his open desk calendar. “I’ve got fifteen minutes before he leaves for lunch, right? Penciled in. Official.”
“I admire your persistence, though I doubt it’ll do any good.” Mr. Black got up, walked to Mr. Lowe’s office, and knocked on the door. “Miss King to see you.”
“What?”
Had Mr. Black not told him of the appointment? Was that why this one hadn’t been canceled?
“Miss King, sir.” The secretary pulled a face that barely covered his amusement as he opened the door.
She’d take this appointment however it came. She needed Mr. Lowe to give—not just to help her and Sebastian, but to help Teaville. He could do more for the poor than anyone else in town.
She gave Mr. Black a nod before charging in.
Mr. Lowe stood behind his desk and gestured toward the big green chair. His eyes were wide and his eyebrows high on his forehead. “Have a seat?”
“Thank you.” She sat and arranged her skirts.
“I hope you came to see me today for a reason other than that of our previous conversations.” He settled back in his chair and interlaced his fingers atop his chest.
She sucked in a fortifying breath. “I did.”
Was there a ghost of a smile on those lips? “Glad to hear it.” He gestured for her to speak.
“I’m here to offer you a chance to do your Christian duty to give from your excess.”
His eyes shuttered. He leaned forward and folded his arms on the desktop. “I’ve already said no to your project.” Any hint of a smile vanished.
“I realize that.” She plunged into her first tactic. “How long have you attended a church?”
His face scrunched in confusion. “All my life.”
“And you’ve not heard a sermon about tithing?” She lifted a brow.
He gave her a look any parent would have slapped clean off his face. “I’ve listened to countless sermons on tithing.”
“Perhaps another might help.”
He guffawed—whether from amusement or irritation, she couldn’t tell. “Miss King, if it would make you happy, preach your heart out.” He leaned back in his seat, a ridiculous smile on his face.
Unsettled by his Cheshire-cat grin, she tore her gaze away so she could recall the list of topics she’d planned to cover. “Well, first, the Bible says true religion is seeing to the needs of orphans and widows.”
His upper lip inched up a notch on the right side. “That would be James 1:27.”
All right, so he knew his Bible. “Very good. So we ladies are simply trying to provide you an avenue to practice your religion.”
“Who says I don’t practice my religion?” His eyes narrowed and his face hardened. And yet . . . was that a twinkle in his hazel eyes?
She fidgeted under his glare. “Perhaps I’m wrong, but I don’t believe you’ve given ten percent to our church.”
“You’re not wrong, but I answer to God, not you.”
“Perhaps my request is God’s way of showing you that you should.”
“So you’re here to call out your Christian brother for neglecting his spiritual disciplines?” He now sported that same tight-lipped, obnoxious smile Sebastian wore when he boasted about out-arguing another lawyer in the courtroom.
“Yes.” Her voice wavered.
“And like the Bible says, you’ve come to me first, privately, to point out my faults?”
She worried her lip. He didn’t look a bit contrite. “I suppose so. That’s in Matthew 18, right?”
He nodded, but he didn’t seem impressed. “If you read that verse carefully, you’d see it says you should confront the person who has sinned against you, and, Miss King, I fail to see how I’ve sinned against you. Other than not granting your persistent request, which is not a sin. You don’t always get what you want. I think the whole book of Ecclesiastes testifies to that.” He started to rise. “There’s no need to continue this conversation.”
She gripped the armrests, stabbing her nails into the leather. He didn’t know everything. And he certainly didn’t know her future was affected by her ability to procure his donation. If he really cared about widows and orphans, he’d not be fighting her one whit. “I scheduled fifteen minutes of your time, and I want all fifteen.”
“Of course you do.” He plunked back in his chair and eyed her. “Have you heard the saying, ‘You catch more flies with honey than vinegar’?”
“I tried honey, and you slammed a door in my face.”
“Yes then, I . . .” He looked off into space and clicked his tongue. “I agree, you were much more congenial that day. Forgive me.”
“Yet being friendly didn’t work.”
“I didn’t say honey always works—it’s a proverb, not a law.” He threw her a wicked grin. “It so happens I’m a fastidious fly.”
“I wish you didn’t find this so amusing.” She tried not to scowl. Did he relish making people squirm? “Poverty is not funny.”
He sighed. “Go on, then.”
Lord, give me the right words. “We ladies are trying to make a difference in the lives of the unfortunate—”
“Truly?”
“Of course.” She huffed at the interruption.
“I’m sorry, continue.” His chair creaked as he readjusted himself into a nonchalant pose. His hands steepled against his mouth as if he planned to listen, but the sudden dullness in his expression indicated her credibility was tumbling in flames.
She had to get on his good side somehow. “Let me start over.” She glanced at the clock. Only eight more minutes to convince him. How had she lost so much time?
“This project clearly means a lot to you.” He didn’t look so inflexible anymore.
“It does.” She clasped her hands. “I’m not asking for much.”
His posture softened, and so did his eyes. “Look, Miss King, why don’t you return next year? Perhaps I’ll like your benevolence project then. I’m bound to agree with it one year or another.”
She ran her thumb along the seams of her glove. Had he ever given any of the other women this offer? But next year’s project wouldn’t help her now. And if she couldn’t obtain Mrs. Little’s thirty dollars, she had no hope of a thousand for Sebastian. She stared at the clock. Five minutes remained. But she couldn’t remember any of the other things she’d planned to say.
She was kidding herself; she’d never convince him to give her anything. She probably wasn’t fit to raise campaign funds either. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Lowe.” She stood, and he did as well.
Crossing his threshold and closing the door behind her, she felt like shaking the sawdust off her feet. Her mother’s surviving to be one hundred was more likely than Mr. Lowe spending a penny on a starving baby.
And yet, the back of her neck burned at how easily he’d turned things around on her. Was she wrong? She couldn’t be. How could asking a Christian man to help the poor be wrong?
Mr. Black looked up from his desk, his brow furrowed, his teeth worrying his lip—yet was that a sparkle in his eyes?
Was he fighting back a laugh or wondering what she’d do next?
Which should be what?
She looked over at the clock, the minute hand still ticks away from the top. “I’m going back in.” She tilted her chin, daring Mr. Black to stop her.
“As long as I don’t have to join you.” He shook his head, an amused curl to his thin lips. “I haven’t written my will yet.”
“You should come. It’s not every day you get to see a miracle.”
Mr. Black barked a laugh. “Well, if you succeed, I’ll buy you lunch—as long as you bless and multiply it so I don’t have to buy a plate for myself.”
Leaving Mr. Black chuckling, she marched back toward Mr. Lowe’s office, her pulse quickening with each step.
She rapped her knuckles against the door. Mr. Lowe wouldn’t notice her heart’s sudden erratic rhythm if she held her voice steady, which should be easy since she would only say one w
ord this time.
Just one.
“Come in,” Mr. Lowe called.
She yanked her gaze off her feet and swung the door back open.
He groaned and set down a stack of papers. “Miss King . . .”
She held out her hand to stop him from saying more, hoping her face looked sincere, not tempestuous or defiant.
She cleared her throat. “Please?”
A saw’s whine filled the silence.
Mr. Lowe shifted in his seat as the saw moaned to a halt. He quirked his eyebrow. “That’s all you’re going to say?”
She nodded.
“I’m afraid it’s still a no.”
She refused to look away or reason with him again. The Lord would have to direct Mr. Lowe’s heart as He did a river, because the more she talked, the more this man seemed to devalue her and her project.
Mr. Lowe’s gaze didn’t waver, nor did he say anything else.
Well, evidently God wasn’t going to work a miracle in a minute. “I’ll return tomorrow, then.” She grabbed the glass doorknob behind her.
“You’re really coming back?”
She gave him a firm nod. “I am.”
He opened his mouth a few times, and finally said, “Why?”
“Maybe I can’t soften your heart, but God can do all things. When you change your mind, I’ll be here.” Actually, only a few days remained until next week’s meeting, and hopefully by then the women wouldn’t need his donation. But at least she’d prove to Mrs. Little and Sebastian that she wasn’t a quitter.
And if she convinced Mr. Lowe to give, the moral society could help more poor people get what they needed.
“You’re putting a lot of effort into something so miniscule.”
She scrunched her mouth. And he was putting a lot of effort into denying her something financially insignificant to him—she hadn’t even asked him for the campaign donation Sebastian wanted yet. “God commands us to love the lowly. I’m willing to do my part, but will you do yours?”
“You didn’t come here because of your love for the poor.”
“I—”
“The truth, Lydia.”
His use of her Christian name startled her. Why did Lydia sound more intimate on his lips than Sebastian’s?
“God wants charity, but He also wants truth.” Nicholas’s voice softened. “Are you truly standing in my office because you love the poor so much?”
A swirl of hot and cold whispered across her shoulders, and she clasped her clammy hands behind her back. It didn’t matter whether her motivations were entirely pure or not. Not really. Of course she cared for the poor. She was one of them, for goodness’ sake.
“I see I’ve gotten my answer. Return next year . . . if your project’s worthy.” He shuffled his papers back into a neat pile.
Did she really have to explain why a Christian should help the poor? “The virtue of the current project is self-explanatory. How can you not—”
“My answer, for this project, shall always be no.”
“If Christ himself stood here, pleading on behalf of His lambs, would you say that?” She cringed. Why hadn’t she stuck with her one word? Putting herself in Christ’s place wouldn’t impress Mr. Lowe one bit.
But he only stopped straightening papers and stroked his jaw. The ticking of the clock above her head grew eerily loud.
Meet his eyes. Don’t look down. Stop fidgeting. Pray.
Lord, help me to get him to understand how much I need this.
Her shoulders slumped. I need this.
No need to pray anymore. He was right. The poor were last on her mind, even when they should be first.
“Ah, there—now I see the truth coming.” His eyes flashed in triumph.
She averted her gaze. “Perhaps I have other reasons to be insistent, but I do want to help people. Even if my motives aren’t the purest, God can still use me, can He not?”
She could feel his gaze intent upon her, but she couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t bear to see his condescending know-it-all look again. Couldn’t let him see how deeply he’d plumbed and how hollow she’d discovered herself to be.
With the heat of defeat rimming her eyes, she gave him a dismissive nod and forced herself to walk out without slumping.
Thankfully Mr. Black was pretending to be busy with his ledger, or else she might not have made it outside before loosing a traitorous sniffle.
8
Nicholas stomped up the train platform stairs and dropped onto a bench to await his friend Henri Beauchamp, who was thankfully nothing like Miss King. Even if the man had his faults, namely talking incessantly, at least he wasn’t like the self-important Christians in Teaville. As a non-Christian, Henri cared more for the poor than any of the ladies in that moral society, no matter what they claimed.
How dare she quote the Bible at him!
Miss King had passion, he’d give her that, but she was woefully misdirected. A woman that young and naïve and fervent needed to be protected from and guided through the pitfalls of this world, not be throttled by him in frustration. Yet he’d only kept from doing so this afternoon by grinning like a court jester.
Of course, that temptation hadn’t lasted long. She was a woman after all. A young one who believed in what she was doing, which at least counted for something.
But she needed the tutelage of a mature, older woman who knew what righteousness was, not Mrs. Little’s group. Not anything dealing with the Littles.
And Sebastian Little was courting her.
Why did her choice of suitor bother him so much?
He rubbed his eyes, trying to erase the image of her pale pink lips puckering up to kiss that weasel.
Mr. Taylor strode past him. “Good afternoon, Lowe.”
“Taylor.” Nicholas frowned as soon as Mr. Taylor looked the other way. Another upstanding member of the community who lived as if Christ only cared what one did while surrounded by church walls. And Taylor planned to teach Christian virtues on Wednesday nights to boot.
But he wouldn’t call the man out, not unless he was ready to explain how he knew where Mr. Taylor spent Saturday nights.
Why did he bother going to church with these people? He sighed and tipped his head back, watching a hawk glide in a draft. He didn’t fault Henri for scoffing at Christianity because of its hypocrites.
But no matter what anyone did in the name of Jesus, truth didn’t change. And that’s why he attended Freewill Church—Pastor Wisely preached truth. Too bad a lot of his flock chose to ignore him.
And though Lydia didn’t know it, he’d made sure the parsonage’s roof had been repaired this year and had occasionally funded Pastor Wisely’s specific requests with the tithe he set aside to put to whatever project he felt was worthy. Not that what he did with his money was anyone’s concern.
The far-off chug and throb of the train rumbled beneath him, and the sensation shimmied under his skin. Ruminating over Miss King and Mr. Taylor was making him a grumpy companion for his returning friend. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind of anything that would tighten his nerves.
The engine stopped, the steam let out a dying hiss, strangers mumbled indistinctly, and dead oak leaves rustled in the tree behind him.
“Mon ami!” Henri shouted.
Nicholas took in a fortifying breath, pushed himself off the bench, and waved at Henri on the back of the passenger car’s platform. His stout friend disappeared the moment he descended into the crowd.
Breaking through a mass of people and luggage, Henri bowled toward him. The cocky lift to his auburn brow made him almost handsome despite his sallow skin and double chin.
Nicholas gripped him in a quick, hard hug, thumped him on the back, then pushed him to arm’s length. “You look older than the last time I saw you.”
“Yeah, well, a month and a half will do that to a man, especially when his mother spends most of that time scolding him. Seems every time I go home, I get a year or two’s worth of lectures. I believe her ran
ts would age anyone overnight.”
“And the bags under your eyes certainly help the look.”
Henri took off his spectacles and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I shared a berth with a man who ought to ask you for a job. He sawed logs with more gusto than any of your fine machinery.” Henri replaced his glasses. “I’ll have you know, some men do their best woodworking at night.”
Nicholas knocked him in the shoulder. “Sounds like a job you’d enjoy.” He followed Henri and collected his crate from a porter.
“I take it we’re carrying everything ourselves?” Henri’s face puckered. “Is your driver’s wife keeping him home?”
Nicholas nodded. “Mrs. Parker’s dementia gets worse every week.”
“What about hiring someone from the livery?”
Nicholas glanced around the platform but didn’t see anything else to carry. He had the crate, Henri gripped an attaché case, and an old carpet bag lay at his feet. “Is there more?”
“No.” His frown looked more like a pout.
“We can handle this.” Nicholas poked Henri’s flabby side. “It’ll do you good.” And it would keep the man from talking so much. Maybe. “Besides, it’s too nice of a day to get into a vehicle after you’ve been on a train all day. Who knows how long this nice weather will last.”
“You’ll be the death of me.”
Nicholas balanced the box on his shoulder. “This is our least dangerous task today.”
“We’re going out later, then?” Henri grunted as he hefted his bag.
Nicholas started down the road before Henri could hail a cab. “If you have the time.”
“I’m sure the mill ran fine without me for almost two months. There’s no need to rush back tonight.” Henri scuffled behind him. “Anything interesting happen while I’ve been gone?”
“Roxanna’s left.” Henri’s footsteps stopped behind him, so Nicholas turned to face him. “It’s all right. Hopefully a good thing. Left as a mail-order bride on Friday. Took Francis with her.”
“And this man knows . . . about . . .”
“Yes, and he doesn’t intend to exploit her, if we can believe his letter. She knows she can return, though.” Nicholas resumed walking. “The man’s a preacher.”
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