“Don’t look now,” Marie whispered, “but we’re being followed.”
Francie snapped back to attention. “We are? By whom? Is it that fellow in the cart?” Something cold and wet pushed into Francie’s hand. “What on earth? Oh, will you look at this!”
A large yellow dog had joined them and was now happily investigating the smells of Francie’s clothing. “To whom does he belong?” she asked Marie.
“He has the run of the island, but he’s not the best-mannered creature,” her cousin answered. “His name is Emerson, and he belongs at the carriage stables.”
“He’ll likely find his way back home when we get to the shops,” Francie said, patting the dog’s furry head. “But in the meantime, you’re welcome to walk with us, Emerson.”
The line of shops was like a wonderland on this early summer morning, and Emerson deserted them to investigate the activities. Shopkeepers called to each other as they opened their doors and shined windows and swept out the thresholds of the stores.
A lovely aroma drifted out into the street, and Francie melted. There was only one thing in the world that smelled as exquisite as that. Chocolate. It was her weakness, the one temptation that struck her deeply.
Marie pulled her into the source of the lovely smell. “This fudge is incredible.”
The scent inside the store was even more extraordinary. Rich chocolate and cream mingled with butter into a luscious blend that tantalized her taste buds. Marie popped a sample into Francie’s mouth. “Well, what do you think?”
“Mmm.” There weren’t words to describe the flavor of the fudge, and she didn’t try. “Mmm.”
Marie purchased two slices of the fudge, one for Mrs. Carlton and one to bring home. “Mama has a weakness for Mackinac Island fudge.” Her dark eyes twinkled. “Although, to tell the truth, Grandmama Christiana is the one who’s most fond of it, although she’ll never admit it.”
They strolled back onto the street, admiring the window displays until Marie’s steps slowed.
“Let’s go in here,” she urged. “Come on!”
The beautiful scent of chocolate was replaced by leather and oil and metal. Francie voiced her objection immediately. “Certainly you don’t need anything from here, unless you need to get new snowshoes!” She pointed to the woven snowshoes hanging on the wall.
“No, silly, I want you to meet someone. Thomas! Thomas!” She motioned to a young man in the back of the room. “You can’t hide back there. I saw you come in here.”
The man came toward them, a frown wrinkling his forehead over his small glasses. “Miss Harris, I can assure you that I was not hiding. I was obtaining a packet of nails to mend a wayward board in my study.” He opened his hand as if to prove his words.
“Thomas, this is my cousin, Francine Woods. She’s spending the summer with us. Be nice to her.”
His gasp was audible. “Be nice! Why—!” He sputtered wordlessly.
Francie bit her lip to keep from laughing. If only he wouldn’t react so strongly to Marie’s teasing, he’d have an equal hand here.
He looked like a pleasant-enough fellow. His hair was a mass of sandy brown curls that looked as if he ran his fingers through it in exasperation several times a day, and his complexion was clear and a bit sunburned.
“Francie,” Marie said, “this is Thomas Carlton. You’ll probably see him quite a bit on the island. He’s Annabelle Carlton’s son.”
“I’m delighted to meet you,” Francie said, feeling a dreaded flush creep up her neck as he turned toward her with vague surprise, as if he’d forgotten she was there. His tawny eyes studied her briefly.
“You’re Marie’s cousin, are you? You don’t look like her.”
Heavy silence hung in the air, and Francie knew that she was getting even redder. It was true that Marie’s exotic black hair and dark eyes often overwhelmed Francie’s light brown hair and blue eyes, but lingering in the reflected brightness of Marie’s beauty had always been enough.
Marie’s easy laugh broke the awkward moment. “Fortunately for her, I’d say, she doesn’t look anything like me. Now be a good fellow and say hello to Francie.”
Something that could have been a smile twitched his lips, and he laid the nails on the counter. Taking her hand, he bowed slightly. “My pleasure, Miss Woods. I hope I’ll have the honor of meeting you again.”
With those words, he turned and walked out of the store, his handful of nails still on the polished wooden surface. Through the window, they saw the big yellow dog trot after him for a way before coming back to flop in front of the fudge store.
“Thomas seems nice,” Francie commented. She motioned toward his intended purchase, still on the counter. “Though a bit forgetful, it seems.”
“He’s just come from school,” her cousin told her as they trailed out of the store. “I suspect his mind is still in his books.”
“There could be worse places, I suppose, to have one’s mind than in books.” As much as she enjoyed the morning walks with Marie, she was anxious to return to the garden, where the morning dew was drying on the flowers’ faces.
“Look!” Marie pointed toward the end of the road. “He’ll think we’re following him, but I have an embroidery lesson with his mother in a few minutes. If we walk quickly, we can catch up with him. Thomas! Wait!”
The morning was already warming quickly, and droplets of sweat beaded Francie’s face. A tendril of her rather carelessly caught-up bun had escaped and trailed down her neck.
This certainly wasn’t the first impression she wanted to make.
“We’re going to your house,” Marie panted, a bit out of breath from rushing after him.
“Oh! Mother is teaching both of you?”
“No,” Francie said. “Just Marie. I’m actually going back to Sea Breeze.”
“Not a needlewoman, I take it?”
“I can sew a competent seam, but beyond that, I’m all thumbs.” Why did he stare at her so intently? She tucked the wayward strand of hair back into place self-consciously, and it immediately fell back down.
“When is your father coming to the island?” Marie asked, with a sideways, amused glance at them both.
“He might be here tomorrow,” Thomas answered. “He’s a minister, supposedly retired because of his health, but you would never know it from his schedule. In the summer, especially, he fills in at various churches in need. He’s in Lansing now.”
“I’m sure you’ll be glad to have him back home,” Francie said. “I know how much you must miss him when he’s away.”
“Francie’s parents are missionaries,” Marie explained quietly. “They’re in Brazil right now and won’t be back until November.”
“Missionaries? Really?” He leaned in a bit closer. He smelled like soap and freshly washed cotton. “Our lives are a bit parallel, aren’t they?”
She paused and nodded. “We both have parents who have given their lives to serving the Lord.”
“And do you?” His words were but a breath. “Do you give your life to serving your Lord?”
“I do.” She spoke resolutely. “Perhaps not as a missionary but I do my best to live my life as God intends me to.”
He nodded. “I see.”
They walked in silence until they were at the entrance to the Carlton house. “Would you like to come in?” he asked. “I can offer you a glass of cool tea.”
She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m going back to Sea Breeze to do some work.”
“Work?” His glance darted from her to Marie and then back again.
“Francie is an artist,” Marie explained. “She’s painting in Mama’s garden.”
Francie watched in amazement as he began to smile, slowly at first and then widely. “Painting! Oh, my! Painting!”
The young man had clearly lost his mind. Perhaps, Francie thought, he hasn’t been at school at all, but in a home for the disturbed.
“What is so funny?” Marie asked.
He touched Francie’s head
and turned it to the side. His fingertip traced a line under her ear to her chin. “I’d wondered where this streak had come from. I thought perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Harris had hired a charwoman.”
“What are you talking about?”
He showed her his forefinger, now covered with a dark gray powder. “This. I gather you were using charcoals this morning?”
Suddenly she understood why he’d been staring at her earlier. She scrubbed at her neck, trying to eliminate the last vestiges of the morning’s foray into the garden.
“You must think I’m a terrible mess.” She knew her face was flushed a deep brick red. “I generally try to make myself more presentable when I go out into the public eye, trust me.”
He shook his head. “I’m certain that you do, Miss Woods. I suspect a smudge of paint or charcoal is the risk one takes when one ventures into the visual arts.”
Behind him, Marie aped his stiff demeanor, and Francie had to stifle the smile that bubbled up despite her embarrassment.
“It is, indeed, Mr. Carlton. I’m glad to have met you, and I’m sure our paths will cross again.”
She bobbed a faint curtsey and walked away, not at all certain that he understood what had just transpired … or that she did either.
Thomas stood at the window of his room at his parents’ cottage on Mackinac Island. From here, on the second story, he could see the rooftop of Sea Breeze. It was only a short distance between the two houses, but today that distance seemed like a million miles.
Francine Woods. She was an odd woman—perhaps odd wasn’t the best word, he acknowledged. She had the shyness of someone who had been cloistered at a boarding school, but he caught notes of an independent streak and an irrepressible sense of humor.
At the university, he studied literature and politics and philosophy. His parents had taught him religion and etiquette, and from his early occupation as a shop clerk before starting school, he had acquired the basics of a business knowledge.
Yet nothing had truly prepared him to be adept in a world full of people who trusted intuition and celebrated imagination. The truth was, he had no creativity at all. He couldn’t sing, and piano lessons had been painful. His feeble attempts at sketching were pitiful. He hadn’t a story or a fable of his own in his mind.
He didn’t comprehend it. It simply didn’t make sense, this imagination stuff. Life was made of facts, of real things, like a rock or a pen or a chair. That he understood. But why—or how—someone would work for hours on a painting of a boat when he could work for half the time on painting the boat itself so it would be more seaworthy….
Thomas stared out the window, unseeing, as he thought of Francie. Perhaps he’d stop by Sea Breeze one day soon—just to see what her paintings were like and to investigate this mysterious artistic process. The fact that she had eyes as blue as Lake Huron itself had nothing to do with it, he told himself sternly. Nothing at all.
Chapter 2
Francie, do you mind if we don’t go on a walk this morning?” Marie brushed her long dark hair and wound it into a soft bun atop her head. “I’m going to the Carltons’ house early today, but I don’t want to leave you alone with nothing to do.”
Francie shook her head. “I’ll find something to do. I like exploring the island, plus Aunt Dorothea’s garden is wonderful. The pansies are in bloom.”
Marie shook her head. “As long as I live, I’ll never see what you see when you look at the garden. It’s just a bunch of flowers, and most of them can’t be picked and brought into the house, since they wilt away almost instantly. What’s so special about a pansy anyway?”
“Oh, I love the deep purple of the petals. They’re like velvet. Plus, they have faces.”
Marie laughed. “That’s right. I remember when we were little, we’d go out into the garden and look at the pansy faces. I’d hold a dandelion under your chin to see if you liked butter—and you always did. And we’d pull the petals off the daisies—He loves me, he loves me not.”
“Even when we didn’t have beaus!”
Their laughter continued as they went down the stairs to breakfast where Middle Meg was dishing up oatmeal.
“Eat hearty,” Grandmama Christiana ordered from her chair. “Oatmeal is good, healthy food.”
Though Francie adored oatmeal, especially with raisins sprinkled on top, Marie did not, and she let everyone know it.
“I cannot abide this stuff,” she said, pushing it away. “It’s horse food mixed with water.”
The elderly woman leaned forward and pounded a bony fist on the table. “You need to eat it.”
Aunt Dorothea swept into the room, pushing a last pin into her hair. “I overslept, and I don’t know why. Oh, Middle Meg, you’ve given my oatmeal to Marie.” She took the offending bowl from Marie and put it in her own place at the table. “There. Marie, would you rather have some toast?”
Grandmama Christiana sniffed. “If she were my child, she’d eat the oatmeal and be happy with it.”
Aunt Dorothea patted her shoulder. “Yes, dear. Say, do you all realize that Leonard is coming in today? At least he’s hoping to.”
Francie smiled as the wind blew right out of Grandmama Christiana’s sails. The older woman was extremely proud of her son. “He is? Today? Really?” Her wrinkled face settled into a placid expression. “It’ll be so nice to see him again. So nice.”
“Rev. Carlton might be arriving today, too,” Francie said. “I met Thomas yesterday, and he mentioned that.”
Aunt Dorothea nodded as she slid into her chair. “They could be on the same boat, and if they are, I hope one of them has the sense to know it’s time to get themselves off when it pulls up. Those two, once they get to talking, they lose track of everything else. That reminds me, by the way, that I need to talk to Middle Meg about tonight’s dinner. I want it to be special.”
The conversation moved to a discussion of the evening’s menu, with minor bickering between Aunt Dorothea and her mother-in-law. Soon Marie left to go to the Carltons’, and Francie was able to escape into the garden.
Her sketchbook was filling quickly. In her hands, a dandelion became a tousle-haired child. Roses were the skirts of the enchanted ball gowns for imaginary fairies, and a lily of the valley stalk with its white-cupped flowers became wedding bells for the marriage of a beetle and a caterpillar.
As she drew the pictures, a story emerged, and she tucked her knees up to her chin. They were silly stories and sillier drawings, but she loved them; and the more she drew, the better the details became.
“Francie! Francie!” Aunt Dorothea stood at the back door of Sea Breeze. “Lunch!”
Reluctantly Francie shut the book and tucked it under her arm. As she entered the kitchen, she yelped happily. “Uncle Leonard! You are here!”
He swept her in a tight hug. “Francine, you’re looking very well! Boarding school must have agreed with you.”
“Mackinac Island is agreeing with me,” she said.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he agreed. “Are you having a good time? Is my Marie being nice to you?”
She laughed. “Marie is always nice to me; you know that. She’s at the Carltons’ house now.”
“Dorothea tells me she’s learning to embroider from Mrs. Carlton.” He grinned. “A valuable skill, I assume. Why aren’t you joining her?”
She wrinkled her nose. “You could give me a whole faculty of needlewomen, and I still couldn’t learn. I can do the basics, but that’s it; honestly, that’s all I care to do.”
He guffawed. “You’re a great girl, Francie. You’re still doing your drawings, I hear.”
“I am. I’m especially grateful for Aunt Dorothea’s garden. I could sit out there all day and draw.”
He patted her shoulder. “Ah, Francie’s Fancies, right?”
Her stomach knotted into a tight ball. The dreadful nickname for her sketches still stung. She knew Uncle Leonard loved her—they all did—but none of them took her artwork as anything but triviality. To them, he
r pictures and stories were simply frivolities. Marie’s embroidery was treated with more seriousness.
Dinner that evening was a joyous burst of activity, when everyone gathered together to welcome Uncle Leonard to the island. He explained to them that Rev. Carlton’s interim pastor duties had been extended due to a death in his congregation, so they hadn’t traveled together.
Marie shot Francie a wink and said sweetly, “That’s too bad. Thomas was so looking forward to seeing him. Perhaps Francie can visit with him and keep him occupied until Rev. Carlton comes home. They can discuss church issues, I’m sure.”
“Marie Harris, that is enough!” Grandmama Christiana glared at the young woman. “Your behavior is inappropriate. I’m sure that if Thomas and Francie talk, the subject matter will be elevated and of the highest standards.”
Francie focused on moving the peas on her plate into a neat pile, and Aunt Dorothea rescued the conversation by discussing the church activities on Mackinac Island, a subject that satisfied Grandmama Christiana.
After a special dessert of strawberries and cream heaped on rich slabs of pound cake, the family retired to the wraparound porch, while the sounds of Middle Meg’s clearing the table clattered in the background with a steady yet muted cadence, accompanied by her rendition of a medley of hymns.
“Ah.” Uncle Leonard sighed as he sank into one of the wicker chairs. “There is nothing quite like the breeze right off the lake here.”
He closed his eyes and put his feet up on the pedestal footstool. Aunt Dorothea dropped into the seat beside him. “It’s good to have you here, dear. Time on the island will do you a world of good.” She touched his arm. “You’ve been working so hard.”
Francie perched on the far side of the porch and watched the two. Her aunt and uncle were clearly in love, and she appreciated their subtle signals to each other. They weren’t the kind to show their affection in public, but these silent communications were endearing.
The Valiant Hearts Romance Collection Page 29
