“I intend to. And I intend to find out just what this young scalawag’s intentions are toward my daughter.”
Christiana let out a sigh of relief and entered with the coffee. At least Papa had agreed to see Noah, but she didn’t envy Noah his first meeting with her papa.
Noah stepped into the foyer of the Leonard home, removing his hat and following Christiana to the parlor. He had been in several unsettling, even dangerous situations in his short career as a reporter, but this afternoon he felt as if he were entering a proverbial lions’ den, and he was the main course.
And the lion, with his curly brown beard and glaring topaz eyes, looked as if he might suddenly charge and tear him limb from limb.
Noah cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Mr. Leonard.” He put out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”
His hand was ignored, and Noah dropped it limply back to his side.
“Christiana,” the unsmiling master of the lair said, “please bring us some refreshment.”
“Yes, Papa.” Before hurrying away, she looked anxiously between them, and Noah remembered her hushed words of greeting. “Be careful what you say. He’s not in a good temper.”
He believed the man’s order for refreshment had more to do with privacy and less to do with concern for their guest’s thirst. But Christiana was worth whatever trial he must endure.
What followed resembled what Noah felt the Spanish Inquisition might exemplify sans the bizarre methods of torture. Where did he live? What did he do for a living? How much did he make a year? For what purpose had he come home to Portland? How long did he intend to stay? Did he believe in the church and in God? Endless questions, many of them personal and inquisitive.
And then the bearded lion leaned forward in his chair, his eyes intent, his mouth curled in what resembled a snarl—what reason did Noah have for wishing to court his daughter?
Why Christiana?
Did he realize she was little more than a child?
Mr. Leonard stated that Christiana had only just stopped playing with dolls, putting an end to his rapid-fire questions, all of which Noah had worked to answer with accuracy. At last given a chance to speak rather than respond, he said that Christiana was a beautiful, intriguing young woman for whom he held a great deal of respect and would like to know better.
The disgruntled professor sat back and crossed his legs, switching the topic to his elaborate gun collection and mentioning that he’d been an expert marksman in his youth.
Mrs. Leonard swept into the room with Christiana behind her bearing a tray of lemonade. “And not a one of those guns will fire,” the lion’s wife added, a lilt to her voice. “They’re intended for show—a few of them my husband donated for display in Oregon’s exhibit that he also helped put together. One of his weapons not at the Exposition, a musket, dates back to the Revolutionary War, originally belonging to an ancestor who lived in the colonies. Isn’t that what you told me, darling?”
Her husband gave a grumbled affirmation, stating that they might fire, clearly not happy with the outcome of his intended threat. Noah gratefully accepted a glass from the tray and took a few gulps of the sweetly sour drink, his clothes sticking to his perspiring skin from the verbal flaying he’d just received.
“I understand you’re something of an inventor?” he offered, hoping the professor would warm to the subject and temporarily forget Noah’s interest in his daughter.
A light entered the yellow-brown eyes. “Yes. Among other things, I’m working on an improvement to the automatic hat tipper of several years ago.”
While away at college, Noah had seen the mechanical device that tipped the hat by squeezing a bulb in the pocket of one’s coat. He gratefully relaxed in his chair as Mr. Leonard spoke of other unusual inventions.
“Many inventors have their items on display at the Exposition.” His eyes narrowed on Noah. “I understand it’s your intention to take my daughter there this afternoon.” He didn’t add “over my dead body,” but his glare implied it.
“Actually, sir, I thought we might all attend if you’re willing,” Noah quickly stated. He wasn’t afraid of Christiana’s father but didn’t want to persist being a villain in the man’s eyes. “I would be interested to see the exhibit you helped to prepare.”
For the first time the lion displayed his teeth in a smile. “Excellent idea! Anna, get your things.” He rose from his chair.
Mrs. Leonard regarded him in disbelief. “Isaiah, really—I just put a roast in the oven!”
“It’ll keep until we return.”
“Hardly. It will burn to a crisp by then and possibly take the house down with it. It takes at least an hour to reach Guild’s Lake—and that was when there was little traffic, before the Exposition opened to the public. The trolleys are packed on a Saturday afternoon as it is, and traffic is horrendous. The Oregonian stated that visitors are coming from all over the nation—all over the world to attend!”
“Then since you just put the roast in the oven, it won’t suffer being stowed away in the icebox and served for tomorrow’s dinner.”
“That’s not how it works, dear. It can’t be refroz—” She glanced toward Christiana, who gave her mother a pleading look, clearly of the same belief as Noah—that her father wouldn’t let her attend if her parents didn’t chaperone. Her mother faltered. “Oh, never mind. I won’t be five minutes.” She left for the kitchen.
Her father exuberantly clapped his hands together. “Excellent. Christiana, go and collect your things. We’re going to the Exhibition!”
She shared a look of relief with Noah before hurrying to gather her hat and parasol.
Chapter 6
Welcome to the Lewis and Clark Centennial American Pacific Exposition and Oriental Fair.” Noah stated the full title given to the festival with panache.
Christiana stared with wonder at the magnificent sight. “It’s glorious,” she breathed in awe.
Noah chuckled. “May I quote you on that?”
She looked away from the layout of buildings that ringed the shimmering lake and into his dark eyes. “You’re writing a story on this?”
“I’m always looking for a story—that’s the life of a reporter. My boss asked me to do a piece for next week’s edition. A coworker has the main assignment, but as you can see, this exhibition is huge and would take a lot of ground to cover.”
Noah handed the attendant two dollars for the entry fee for the four of them.
“I think since Papa helped, he has free admission,” she whispered.
Noah shrugged with a smile and slipped his arm through hers as he accompanied her through the gates.
She looked over her shoulder at the attendant, who smiled and tipped his hat to her, then looked back at Noah. “You shouldn’t have to pay,” she insisted.
“It’s all right, Christiana. I invited your parents; it’s only right I should pay for their tickets, too.”
“But Papa doesn’t need—”
“Christiana, please don’t concern yourself. It’s only fifty cents. Look around you.” He motioned to the buildings nearest them. “Enjoy your time here. This exhibit will someday mark a milestone in our nation’s history, I guarantee it. You’ll be telling your grandchildren about it, and they’ll tell their grandchildren that their grandmother saw it firsthand.”
She nodded with an uncertain smile. Clearly he wasn’t bothered by the idea of paying for an unneeded ticket, so she shouldn’t be concerned. She doubted he had shares in a gold mine, but she hoped he wasn’t a wastrel.
With her parents a few steps behind, she strolled with Noah along one of many wide, paved paths. Those in charge had done a magnificent job in giving the impression of entering an exotic land of plenty.
The greater part of the buildings, as far as the eye could see, gave an intense flavor of Spanish influence, with graceful cupolas, arched doorways, and impressive domes. Red-tiled roofs created the perfect foil against a sky of cloudless blue, and the calm silver lake, with
Mount St. Helens rising in snowy grandeur in the background, topped off the lovely vista. Above the entrance, a hot-air balloon hovered, while brightly colored pennants fluttered in the breeze at the pinnacles of some structures.
They walked amid myriad groups of other exhibit-goers of every race and nation, judging from the manner of their clothing and the varied languages and accents Christiana caught snatches of in conversations. She clung to Noah’s arm, slightly anxious that she might become separated from him. What must have been hundreds of people strolled the pathways and entered exhibits—and those were the ones she could see. Judging by that knowledge alone, she realized there must be thousands here today, more people than she’d ever been among in her life!
“Don’t you fret.” Noah patted her hand. “I won’t let you get lost.”
That he could so aptly discern the source of her anxiety made her regard him in wonder. “How did you know?”
“It’s in your eyes. They reveal your every emotion. I’ll never let anything bad happen to you, Christiana. Not while I’m around to prevent it.”
Would it always be this way between them? This closeness, as if they had known each other far longer than their short acquaintance? Yet what did she truly know about Noah Cafferty? She did know that he didn’t approve of her calling. At the thought, she sobered.
They took their time at each exhibit they visited. Christiana assumed the fair covered miles of ground, and it would take days to observe each site.
Italy’s contribution made Christiana’s jaw drop as she viewed the many marble statues that covered a huge pavilion. Of supreme artistry and skill, the graceful representations depicted the Romans of a bygone century and their gods.
Noah scribbled in a small book he carried, also talking with an attendant in charge a short distance away, while Christiana stood beside her parents and studied a statue of a Roman maiden with flowers at her feet and entwined in her flowing hair.
“If the artist had had you for inspiration,” Noah suddenly said beside her in sotto voce, “there wouldn’t be enough pavilions to hold his works.”
Heat flashed through her face at his outrageous compliment. She looked to where her parents were, only just realizing they had moved a short distance away and out of earshot.
“Noah, you mustn’t say such things.”
“Why not?”
“Because …” Flustered, she gave a little shrug. “Because I’m not the sort of girl whose head can be turned with flattery.”
“That’s good to know, but I was being sincere.” His eyes mirrored his words. “Your features are ten times more beautiful than that statue. I say what I mean, Christiana, which is one reason I chose the profession I did. I don’t get a chance to express my personal viewpoint in my articles, but I’m honest with what I write. And I don’t think much of those gents who say what they don’t mean, just to get a woman’s approval.”
“Then you don’t seek my approval?” she teased mildly, her heart racing with his words.
He didn’t smile. “I wish for your approval more than you could know. But I’m not going to play false with you to get it.”
The more he spoke, the more time she spent with him, the more she could see what an astounding man Noah was. She couldn’t think how to answer but was saved the need when her father strode their way. Christiana suddenly realized how close they were standing.
“You should put that parasol of yours to use so your skin doesn’t burn, my girl,” her father said gruffly, narrowing his eyes at Noah.
Christiana obediently brought it from her shoulder and directly over her head, forcing Noah to step back or be impaled by the metal points.
Throughout the afternoon they visited other exhibits and viewed countless items, including those by Claude Monet at the Smithsonian Institution’s display. Christiana enthused over how the artist depicted light and color in his scenic paintings, finding them refreshing.
They drenched their palates with flavored ices, caught a show—one of many presented at the exhibition—and ate at an outdoor café. At each site Noah jotted notes and spoke with those in charge, and throughout the day Christiana’s father continued his subtle insinuations to keep Noah and Christiana apart. Therefore it stunned Noah when he made reference to the Exposition at night while trying to explain it to Christiana, that her father, who was always one step close behind, spoke up:
“There’s no use for idle words when she can see it for herself, is there?”
Noah stared at him then at Christiana in frank surprise. The same bewilderment shimmered in her eyes. He had thought her father would whisk them away as soon as the first hint of evening came, in order to separate him from Christiana—not choose to extend their visit.
At the Oregon exhibit, Professor Leonard was in his element, almost treating Noah as human as he explained to them the various objects on display dating back to the statehood of Oregon. Historical documents, geographical artwork, and elaborate inventions of technology filled the area.
“Twenty-one countries and nineteen states have exhibits here,” he said. “And each state will be granted a day to publicize, with visiting dignitaries in attendance.”
Noah nodded, already planning to attend on Portland Day, which the media had designated as their state’s day.
“When is Oregon’s day for the pageantry, Papa?” Christiana asked, putting a voice to Noah’s thoughts.
“September 30th.”
“So far away …?”
A hint of longing in her tone prodded Noah to speak. “Would you like to come again? I’ll be covering the story.”
“Ahem.” Her father loudly cleared his throat. “As I was saying, this display here shows how loggers felled the trees, when Portland was nothing more than forest….”
Later they viewed a free motion picture, and Christiana was stunned to see people captured on film. “They were actually moving,” she exclaimed later, as they again walked along the path. “Like numerous daguerreotypes all strung together!”
Noah grinned, catching on to her excitement. “One day you might be able to hear them speak.”
Her eyes grew wider. “How?” She tried to imagine how people’s voices could be extracted and put into film.
“This is the age of progress. You’ve seen many marvels of technology presented here. I wouldn’t be surprised if not too far in the future every home has one of those touring cars or something like it—self-contained motor cabs that travel on fuel—and will completely dispense with the need to harness a horse to a buggy for each outing or even the need to have to wait to catch a crowded trolley. I mean, think of it, Christiana—before the Wright Brothers flew from Kitty Hawk two years ago in their Flyer, did you believe men would one day be able to soar through the clouds? And they successfully did so with gliders years before that. The idea of getting off the ground has long appealed to mankind. Even da Vinci was known for more than his Mona Lisa or The Last Supper. He designed a human flying invention back in the Renaissance period.”
She looked at him in curious awe. “I didn’t realize you knew so much about art.”
He grinned. “I learned more at college than journalism.”
She gave a soft nod. “Have you ever ridden in one of those flying inventions?”
“No. But one day I will.”
She smiled at his confidence. “I find it telling that mankind, as you say, has long wanted to tour the heavens and devised methods to do so. Like that, for instance.” She pointed to the hot-air balloon held down by ropes and hovering over the Exposition. “Perhaps such desires arose from a deep-seated need to be close to their Creator, even an intuitive need to find God, for those who don’t know Him.”
He looked at her with approval. “That’s a lovely thought, Christiana. May I quote you on that?”
She laughed. “Is everything a story to you?”
“Life is made up of millions of individual stories, each worthy of notice.”
She smiled. “I think I like you, Noah Caffert
y.” Her cheeks bloomed with warmth at her words, and her eyes sparkled shyly with expectation.
“I know I like you, Christiana,” he said, low enough so only she could hear.
“Mrs. Leonard!” A young woman approached them. “Miss Leonard. How wonderful to run into both of you on this fine day.”
“Jillian.” Christiana’s mother took her hands in greeting. “How are you feeling, dear? Is this hot sun not too much for you? Wherever is your parasol?”
“I broke it earlier—got it caught in a tree branch, and it tore. Dreadful affair.”
“Then you must take mine.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t. Besides, it’s nearing sunset.”
“You really shouldn’t be out in this hot July sun, dear.”
“My husband is taking me to one of the shows indoors. I’ll be fine.”
At Noah’s curiosity at such an outpouring of concern, Christiana whispered to him, “Mrs. Merriweather is one of our clients.”
“Clients?” He looked at her.
“She is with child.”
“Ah.” Inadvertently Noah’s gaze dropped to the woman’s waist. Her gathered and flounced skirts hid her condition well.
Christiana sighed. “You still don’t approve of midwives in this century, do you?”
He chose his words carefully. “Christiana, I don’t want to argue with you and spoil our lovely outing. I can’t help my personal views.”
“No, I suppose not. Not when you’ve been led to believe that way.” She seemed almost dejected then thoughtful. A sudden gleam lit her eyes. “From what little I know, you seem the adventurous sort….”
“Yes …” He let his answer trail, wary of what was on her mind.
“And you said you’re always on the lookout for a story. Life is a story to you….”
“You listen well,” he answered in curious amusement.
“Would you be willing to do the same? To listen?”
The Midwife's Legacy Page 16
