Movement caught her eye and she glanced left, met Sophia Sheffield’s gaze. There was affection in Callie’s aunt’s eyes. “A moment, Mr. Lodge.” She stepped across the aisle to the Sheffield pew, placed her hand on the door, leaned down and spoke softly. “It’s so good to see you, Mrs. Sheffield. I’m sorry I haven’t been to visit you since I’ve been home. I hope to call on you soon.”
The older woman smiled and patted her hand, matched her hushed tone. “I know you’ve been busy, Ellen. And to good effect. I’ve been sitting here admiring the decorations.” Sophia Sheffield’s lovely violet eyes, so like Callie’s, warmed. “You come calling when you find the time, dear. I’ll have the ‘brown’ cookies waiting.”
Brown cookies. Memories of Sophia’s large hotel kitchen rich with the mouthwatering smells of food cooking and desserts baking rushed upon her. She could almost taste the warm, spicy ginger cookies. She nodded, then pulled her lips into an appropriate, sophisticated smile and turned back to Harold Lodge. The happy memories and Sophia’s praise of the decorations had acted as balm on the sore spot created by Harold Lodge’s remark and her parents’ absence of comment. She swept her gaze over the garland-draped windows and her sense of satisfaction returned. Not even her father’s quick disapproving look as Mr. Lodge bowed her through the opened pew door erased it.
She gathered her skirts close and took her seat beside her mother. Gold twisted-silk fringe edged a purple velvet cushion that padded the bench. She ran the fringe through her fingers, smiled and leaned close. “The new cushion is lovely, Mother.” Hope rose. Perhaps her mother would take advantage of the private moment to say something about her decorations.
Her mother tilted her head and whispered behind the hand she lifted to adjust her bonnet. “I finished it last night and had Asa bring it over. Hopefully, your Mr. Lodge will be suitably impressed.”
The hope died—and took her sense of satisfaction with it. She nodded, unfastened her cloak and pushed her bonnet back to hang between her shoulders. At least her mother and father approved of her beau. She had pleased them in that.
Harold Lodge unbuttoned his coat, seated himself beside her and bowed his head to her level. “A small, pitifully plain church, isn’t it? Despite someone’s attempt to adorn it for the coming festivities.”
His whispered comment sent a spurt of irritation through her. Attempt to adorn it, indeed! “There is no need here for a grandiose church such as you attend in Buffalo, Mr. Lodge.” She ruffled the curls at her forehead and temples, reminded herself that every young woman in the church was envying her at that very moment. And their mothers and fathers, too. She sat a little straighter, held herself from glancing around to see who might be looking at them and made up her mind that she would not allow Mr. Lodge’s ill-conceived comments to ruin her enjoyment of her triumphant day.
“It doesn’t even have stained glass windows.” Harold Lodge’s voice dropped lower. “Of course, that could be changed easily enough, if one had an incentive to donate them. It would be an appropriate gift to commemorate a wedding, even if that socially significant event took place in another larger and more appropriate facility.”
Her breath caught. She turned her head and looked up at him through her lashes, everything but her goal forgotten. “Why, Mr. Lodge...surely, I am misunderstanding you, sir.”
His gaze fastened on hers. A smile touched his lips. “Not at all, Miss Hall. I shall mention making the church such a donation to your father when—”
“Good morning, all!”
She started and gazed front as the congregation responded. David Dibble was standing at the end of the center aisle. What poor timing! She dipped her head and curved her lips into a smug smile at the thought of Harold Lodge’s eagerness to have her for his bride. Of course, that could be because he wanted to best Earl Cuthbert. The thought dampened her elation.
“Please stand with me as we sing a song of praise to our God.”
She rose with the others and took advantage of the moment when everyone was stirring to surreptitiously glance over at the Calverts’ pew. If she could catch Willa’s attention, she would— Daniel. Her intent flickered and died like a guttering candle. Her gaze faltered over Willa tucking a blanket more securely around baby Mary and settled on the tall figure standing in the Townsend pew across the aisle. Daniel was wearing a brown suit of coarse wool, his curls tamed down into those crisp waves, his strong jaw clean shaven and his green eyes focused on David Dibble.
Look at me. The hope sprang to life unbidden. And unwanted. She jerked her gaze away, assuring herself the only reason she wanted Daniel’s attention was because of the work they’d done together on the decorations. She wanted nothing from Daniel. What she wanted was that feeling of...of satisfaction she’d known while working with him—which was foolish in this moment of triumph.
She looked up at Harold Lodge, admired the jeweled pin that held his snowy cravat in place. Daniel wore a plain stock. And he didn’t even have a proper coat. Only that mended wool jacket on the pew seat. Odd that she could pick his voice out of all the others who were singing. But then again, perhaps not. She’d heard him sing often enough—silly songs he made up and taught them.
We’ll march, march, march through
the woods
Quiet as ever we can be.
No animal shall run
We’ll see them every one
As we march through the woods
happy and free.
The song flowed from her memory, tugged her lips into a grin in spite of the time and place. And situation. She stole another look across the aisle wanting to feel that sense of connection that was there whenever their gazes met—even when she was furious with him. She sobered, took a closer look. Daniel had stopped singing. He was facing front, and...yes, that little muscle along his jaw was twitching.
A clearing of throats and the rustle of clothing as people seated themselves alerted her that the singing was over. She sank gracefully to her seat between her mother and Mr. Lodge and folded her hands in her lap, wondering what had angered Daniel.
* * *
Popinjay! If the man’s nose got any higher in the air, he’d drown in a summer rain! Daniel yanked his gaze from the stylish dark-haired man sitting beside Ellen looking as if he owned the place—as if he owned Ellen.
His stomach knotted. He clenched his hands into fists and stared at the pew ahead. Willa was there holding the baby and sitting beside her mother and her stepfather, David Dibble. He glanced toward the door to the back room, assailed by thoughts of working there alone with Ellen. He jerked his gaze back to stare at his boots. I wish you were here, Ma. I need your wisdom. I’m not feeling very Christian at the moment.
Have faith, son. God will work it out.
He pulled in a breath, stopped the growl climbing his throat. How many times had his mother spoken those words to him in the past twelve years? Worse yet, how many times had she prayed that prayer? No matter how many times he’d told her there was nothing for God to work out, she persisted. It made him crazy! He knew full well he was not good enough for Ellen. That he had nothing to offer her—nothing to recommend him even as a suitor, let alone a husband. And he had accepted that. It was that...that...cockalorum across the aisle that bothered him. Within minutes of the man’s arrival at the Sheffield House last night, word had spread about his arrogant, overbearing behavior and his demeaning attitude toward Mrs. Sheffield and the hotel—toward Pinewood itself.
He shot another look across the aisle. Harold Lodge loved himself too much to love Ellen the way she deserved. But there was nothing he could do about it. The knots in his stomach twisted tighter. He blew out breath to ease the tautness in his chest and closed his eyes. Lord God Almighty, please don’t let Ellen be blinded by Harold Lodge’s wealth and its trappings. Please open her eyes and let her refuse his hand. I know I’m not supposed to judge another�
��s heart, but his actions prove he’s not good enough for her. Please let her refuse him and accept another who will love her and treat her with respect and tenderness. And help me, Lord. Help me to fully accept what is Your will. Amen.
* * *
“Before I begin my message this morning, I’d like to acknowledge and thank the people who made these lovely decorations for our Christmas service.” Reverend Matthew Calvert spread his arms, encompassing all of the church in his gesture.
The congregation erupted in applause.
Ellen caught her breath and glanced at her parents. They’d gone as stiff as statues. She looked up at Harold Lodge, saw the slight curl of his lip and panicked. How would she explain?
He smiled and leaned toward her. “The minister would do better to dismiss those people and find others with more refined tastes to do any future decorating. Though it seems these people share their preacher’s opinion. Still, what else can one expect from villagers, my dear Miss Hall.”
How condescending! She stared at Harold Lodge’s supercilious smile and all thought of explaining fled before a rush of anger that turned her as stiff as her parents. Those villagers were smiling and clapping for her. They knew she’d helped to make the decorations. Warmth at their kindness flooded through her, thawed her frozen posture. This charade of deceit was over. She lifted her chin, prepared to tell Harold Lodge that she was the one who had made the paltry bows.
“Whoa! Hold on, everybody.”
She held her words, turned her head to face the pulpit. Matthew Calvert was laughing.
“I said I’d like to acknowledge and thank our decorators. But as Willa was the one who thought of making the decorations and enlisted the help of those who stepped in and actually made them when she became unable to do so, she wants to publicly thank them at our Christmas program. Therefore, I will delay that pleasure until our Christmas service.”
Beside her, her mother gave a soft sigh and relaxed her stiff posture. From the corner of her eye she saw her father’s hand release its white-knuckled grip on his knee and watched the scowl leave his face. She couldn’t tell Mr. Lodge the truth now. If only there were someone who would understand. She glanced over at Daniel, but he was facing forward, and she could not draw his attention. Willa was engaged with the baby.
She looked down and toyed with the fur edging on the cloak’s capelet that draped her shoulders, feeling abandoned, though she knew it was ridiculous. Daniel owed her no allegiance simply because they were once friends and had worked together on the decorations. And she should be feeling proud and happy to be sitting beside the wealthiest, most stylish man in the sanctuary. So what if Harold Lodge’s disparaging comments had stolen the luster from her day? Why, she was soon to be betrothed to a man who could give her the best of everything, a life of ease, all that she desired. Why should she let such a small thing disturb her? Was she so foolish she would risk losing what was within her grasp? Indeed not! She curved her lips into a smile, lifted her head and set herself to listen to the sermon.
“‘Be not high-minded, nor trust in uncertain riches, but in the living God, who giveth us richly all things to enjoy.’ This time of year our thoughts turn to gifts for our loved ones, and perhaps for ourselves. And there’s nothing wrong with that. I’m hoping for a new pair of gloves.” Matthew Calvert laughed and swept his gaze over the congregation, then sobered and leaned forward. “But if I never receive them, or any other worldly gift, I count myself among the men most blessed, for the Lord has given me the gift of salvation. I will speak more of that on Christmas. Today I want to speak about other true gifts—gifts that bless us and last for all of eternity.” He placed his hand on the open Bible in front of him. “In this book I have the assurance of God’s love and care for me and mine. What more have I need of? The riches of this world? Gold? Silver? New gloves?”
Had Reverend Calvert read her thoughts? She stiffened and stared up at him, then dropped her gaze to Harold Lodge’s expensive gray kid gloves and smiled. She would certainly have the riches of this world as his wife.
“I’d rather have the loving touch of my wife’s hand on mine than a dozen pair of the finest gloves money can buy. And what amount of gold can equal the friendship of an honest man whose word you can trust, whose handshake is his bond?”
Murmurs of agreement hummed in the air. She glanced up at Harold Lodge, shifted her gaze to Daniel. She’d always trusted him. He’d never lied to her.
“Or what earthly riches can compare with the peace that comes when you have a home full of love? Can you put a price on the joy that fills you when you hold your baby or receive a hug from your child?”
Matthew Calvert’s voice rang with conviction. It was obvious he was speaking from his heart. No wonder Willa was so happy. A twinge of uneasiness wriggled through her. She ran her hand over the fine wool of her cloak, touched the soft fur.
“Love...honesty...peace...joy...whatever has virtue, is pure or lovely, these are things the Bible says we are to think on and value. We are warned not to put our trust in the riches of this world that moth and rust can destroy, that thieves and the unscrupulous can steal from us.”
“Fool.”
The whispered word was filled with contempt. She looked up at Harold Lodge. His eyes were dark, his face tight with scorn. He leaned down and placed his mouth by her ear.
“Pay no attention to this drivel, my dear Miss Hall. It is merely the panacea used by the clergy to comfort all those without worldly possessions or the means or talent necessary to obtain them. He has a congregation full of such people.” He drew back far enough to see her face and smiled. “But do not count yourself among them, Miss Hall. You will not have to concern yourself with such matters after tomorrow.”
* * *
“There you are, Big Girl.” Daniel fastened the blanket on the Belgian, patted her neck and left the stall. He’d taken both horses out to exercise them, then groomed and fed them. There was nothing left to do.
He strode to the door, the thud of his boots on the stable’s plank floor accompanied by an occasional snort or the thump of a hoof. The hinges creaked. No way to stop that in the cold. He stepped outside and closed the door, checked to make sure the latch was secure and headed across the snow-trampled lot toward Main Street. On his left, lamplight poured out of the windows of the Dibble home, staining the snow beneath them with its golden hue. The house looked warm and inviting. A safe haven from the world. One full of love.
Stop it! He shoved his gloved hands in his jacket pockets and hunched his shoulders against the cold, tramped across the Stony Creek bridge and turned onto Brook Street. Across the frozen, rutted road, Nate Turner’s wagon shop loomed black against the night. He continued down the snow-packed road, choosing a path along the edge where the footing was easier, passing cabin after Townsend Timber company log cabin, with flickering firelight or golden lamplight shining in the windows. The smell of burning wood from stoves and fireplaces hung on the cold, still air.
He turned toward his dark, unlit cabin and strode the path, between thigh-high banks of snow, that led around back. Take in an armful of wood every time you go in the house, son, and you’ll never have to go out in the cold and dark because the woodbox runs low. His pa had drilled that truth into him when he was barely old enough to carry a piece of wood, and it had held him in good stead all these years. His pa had been a wise man—uneducated but wise.
He loaded his arms, shoved open the kitchen door, back-kicked it shut and walked through the dark room to the woodbox by memory, trying not to think about Ellen and Harold Lodge sitting in front of a roaring fire in her parents’ comfortable, well-lit sitting room.
In this book I have the assurance of God’s love and care for me and mine. What more have I need of? The riches of this world? Gold? Silver? New gloves?
It was certain Harold Lodge had all of those things and more besides. He could
give Ellen whatever she deserved or desired. But he’d seen the way Lodge looked at her. And it wasn’t the look of a man in love. It was the smug look of a man who had obtained a wanted prize. Her other beau had to be better than Lodge. “He’s not good enough for her, Lord. Harold Lodge doesn’t love her. Please don’t let Ellen be lured into marrying him because of his money. Please let her refuse him and marry Cuthbert, or someone who will truly love her.”
He dumped the wood into the box, squatted and raked the ashes off the banked embers of his supper fire. He spread a handful of kindling over the massed embers and blew until they winked red, then added a few short pieces of small branches as the kindling caught fire.
I’d rather have the loving touch of my wife’s hand on mine...
He’d never experience that. His chest tightened with the ache that had wormed its way into his heart during the past few days. He rose and gripped the log mantel, hung his head between his outstretched arms and stared at the flames licking at the wood. There was no point in continuing to lie to himself. Willa’s scheming had worked. Working with Ellen, spending time with her the past two days, had stirred emotions he’d thought dead and buried. All of the old yearnings were back, worse than when he was young because he knew there was no hope. All he could do was to hold his tongue from speaking and endure.
* * *
Ellen stared up at the canopy overhead wishing she could fall asleep, but her turbulent thoughts made it impossible. One moment she decided yes, and the next moment she decided no. She had to make up her mind, but there was so much to consider. If only today had never happened.
She let out a long sigh, threw back the covers, pulled on her slippers and climbed from bed. Reflected firelight danced on the silk of her dressing gown as she slipped it on and walked to the fireplace. If only she could talk to Willa. But she simply couldn’t. She hadn’t the courage.
A Season of the Heart Page 12
