“I have to work hard,” her uncle replied. His hair had begun to thin noticeably, and his right foot jiggled a staccato beat. In all of Francie’s memories, she couldn’t find one in which he didn’t show some sign of nervous energy. Aunt Dorothea was just his opposite, calm and serene. Nothing seemed to ruffle her.
“I’m going for a walk,” Marie called from the steps as she tied the yellow ribbons of her straw hat under her chin.
“A walk? This time of the day?” Grandmama Christiana thumped her way onto the wooden slats of the porch with her cane. “You’re not going over to that nasty hotel place, are you?”
Under the brim of her hat, Marie rolled her eyes at Francie. “No, I’m not going to the hotel, and it’s not nasty.”
“Humph.” The elderly woman plopped into the large chair at the top of the stairs with a meaningful glare at Aunt Dorothea. “No child of mine would traipse around unattended.” She pointed her cane at Francie. “Go with her.”
“I’ll be fine by myself,” Marie said. “I’ll be—”
“Francie, go with Marie, please.” Aunt Dorothea’s voice remained composed, unperturbed.
“Mama—”
How amazing it is, Francie thought, that there can be unseen and unheard fireworks, but that’s exactly what is going on. Mother and daughter didn’t even look at each other, but the argument was obvious and the message clear.
Francie jumped off the railing and picked up the sketchbook. She never knew what kind of opportunity might present itself. “Marie, I could use a nice stroll.”
As soon as they turned at the bend in the road, Marie sighed loudly. “That woman thinks we live in the midst of danger and intrigue here. Can you imagine any place as safe as Mackinac Island? And what is her quibble with the Grand Hotel?”
“I can’t imagine,” Francie admitted, pausing to admire a small rabbit that stopped to stare at them from behind a patch of trillium. “I suppose she might be worried about the men over at the fort being a bad influence on us, but I can’t imagine them being unruly.”
“Well,” Marie declared, “they certainly aren’t about to leap out at me and seize me off the path. Nothing that exciting would happen here.”
“Marie! Don’t say such a thing!”
“The old shrew. Oh, I’m sorry, Francie. You know I don’t mean it. I’m just grumbling. Here I am, twenty-two and practically an old maid, and Grandmama Christiana would like to keep me in swaddling clothes until I’m laid in my grave.”
“It must seem like that. Where would you like to go tonight? Shall we just wander?”
“I’d like to go to the Carltons’ house. I think I left my embroidery there, and I would like to put in a few stitches tonight before I retire to sleep.”
Francie frowned. “I’m sure you had your bag with you when you came in.”
Marie shrugged and pulled on an overhanging branch, bringing it low and releasing it so it snapped as it flew back into place. “I must not have. I’ll only be a moment.”
They weren’t far from the Carlton home, and as they turned into the entrance road, a figure separated from the gathering shadows.
“Thomas! You scared us!” Marie shook her finger at him.
“My apologies.” He bowed slightly toward them both. “It’s a fine evening, isn’t it? I understand that Mr. Harris has come onto the island.”
“Yes, he has. It’s been wonderful to see Uncle Leonard again,” Francie said.
“He was instrumental in getting me into Harvard.” Thomas straightened his jacket, almost self-consciously it seemed to her.
“That’s right,” she said. “He went to school there. I didn’t know you were at Harvard. What are you studying?”
“Excuse me,” Marie interjected. “You two go ahead and visit while I go inside and see if I can find my embroidery bag.”
Thomas took Francie’s elbow. “I understand you enjoy gardens. Let me show you the family garden. I have to say it’s not as nice as Dorothea’s, but it’s still quite pleasant.”
He spoke like a textbook, she realized as they toured the small garden area. This might be a disadvantage of immersing oneself so completely in one’s studies.
“These roses,” he told her, “were brought from my grandparents’ house in Grand Rapids. They’ve adapted amazingly, considering the climatic difference. They’re tea roses, I believe.”
“I love tea roses. They would be—” She broke off and leaned over to bury her face in the blooms. She absolutely could not share with him what she had been about to say, that these tiny blossoms would be perfect for the wedding she was planning, especially since the bridal pair were chipmunks in one of her stories.
He looked at her curiously, his golden eyes catching the early evening sun, but he didn’t press her to finish her statement. “And here,” he continued smoothly, “will eventually be a line of lilac bushes, but they need to mature before they’ll be as showy as we’d like.”
As they moved through the garden, the sun began to sink and the shadows lengthened, swaying as the breeze ruffled the surrounding trees and the leaves of the larger bushes.
“It’s almost as if God were walking here in the evening,” she said in a hushed voice.
He nodded but didn’t comment at first. “You have an interesting view of God,” he said at last.
“He is my best friend. You must have a similar relationship with Him, I suspect. After all, your father is a minister.”
They paused in front of a small fountain. Water spilled from a pitcher-bearing cherub and splashed into an alabaster bowl. A cricket chirped, and Francie thought idly that if she could remember the formula for determining the temperature by counting cricket chirps, she would know how warm the day was.
“Do you enjoy your studies?” she asked him, trying desperately to make conversation and fill the silent corners of the night.
“I do. It’s quite varied, and I find myself challenged by my professors and the readings. There’s also a fine library at Harvard, and I’m taking advantage of it and reading beyond that which is assigned. Reading, in and of itself, can be quite an education.”
Somewhere a night bird called, and the underbrush rustled just beyond the garden.
“It’s almost noisy out here,” she said with a smile.
“When the sun sets entirely, it’s a real cacophony,” he agreed.
“Speaking of the sun setting, I should find Marie so we can go home.”
At the edge of the garden, he paused. “I’ve enjoyed this time with you, Francie, and I hope our paths will cross again.”
What did he mean by that? Was he proposing a friendship, or was it more that that? Unfortunately living in a boarding school had kept her inexperienced, and she didn’t have the faintest idea how to proceed with finding out.
She was spared having to deal with it at all when Marie chose that moment to come around the back of the house and join them. “My bag isn’t here. Francie, we’d better get back or else Grandmama Christiana will snap off our heads.”
“We wouldn’t want that to happen,” Thomas said. “I’ll walk you back. Surely your grandmama can’t object to that.”
Marie hooted. “I wouldn’t count on that.”
During the short stroll home, Marie sang softly and Francie was content to listen to her. Her cousin had a lovely voice, and her version of “Abide With Me” was the perfect way to close the evening.
The family was still on the porch. “It’s too pleasant to go inside,” Aunt Dorothea explained. “I could fall asleep out here with the breeze blowing so gently.”
“You’d certainly have sweet dreams,” Thomas said with a slight smile. He turned toward Francie and Marie. “Ladies, it’s been a pleasure to visit with you this evening.” He nodded and disappeared in the deepening darkness.
“What did you talk about?” Grandmama Christiana’s disembodied voice floated from the shadowed center of the porch. “Did he discuss his father’s work?”
“No,” Marie answered, “he didn’t.”
/>
“Did you talk about his studies at the university?”
“No, not that either.”
“Then what did you discuss?” Disapproval rang through the elderly woman’s words.
“I’m not the one to ask,” Marie said. “He talked to Francie, not me.” She flashed a teasing smile at Francie and ran lightly inside the house.
“Flowers,” Francie said. “We talked about flowers.”
Thomas leaned against the fountain. Night had covered the island completely, but sleep refused to come.
He hadn’t been surprised when she’d said that about God in the garden. He just hadn’t known what to say in response.
The truth was, he’d never thought of it that way. So here he stood, long after he should have been soundly asleep, standing in the midst of the garden and listening for his Lord.
A puff of wind lifted the flowers of the large-leafed plant beside him. He had no idea what it was; his knowledge of botany was limited to roses and daisies and other obvious flowers. Just as quickly as it came, the tiny gust vanished. Then the clusters of tea roses dipped, and soon the breeze passed to another part of the garden, until it seemed as if each growing thing had been caressed by the zephyr.
Could it be—? He dismissed the thought immediately. That was what Francie Woods would say. He shook his head. He was a university man. He dealt in facts, with proof, with truths.
And yet he was a man who believed in God.
It had always been enough. His faith was the one thing at odds with his schooling, but somehow he had always managed to make room for them both.
There were some other stirrings in his soul, too, which he hadn’t felt before, and they had something to do with Miss Francie Woods.
He rubbed his forehead. His normally ordered life was becoming quite involved. The oddest part was that, whenever he thought of the source of that complication, he found himself smiling.
Smiling! He had spent exactly twenty-two minutes with the young woman—and the fact that he knew the time worried him just a bit—yet she had, with uncanny ease, made herself a part of his life.
Chapter 3
The fern moved slightly, and Francie held her breath as a tiny rabbit selected a tender stalk of grass and ate it. She was on another solitary walk. Marie, it turned out, was an early riser, and she was often already on her morning stroll when Francie woke up.
Overhead, a bird called, and the rabbit froze in place, its teeth still chewing industriously. How her fingers itched to record the moment on paper, but she was afraid to reach for her sketchbook lest the movement startle the rabbit.
Around her, the island was alive with the bustle of activity. She could hear the clop of hooves on the path and the squeak of wagon wheels. It was probably someone working on the Grand Hotel, like the fellow she and Marie had met the other day.
The hotel was amazing to her. She’d missed the initial days of its building, but it was growing at an incredible rate. Despite Grandmama Christiana’s dire warnings, she managed to pass by the hotel daily.
It would open soon. The excitement was pervasive and as the day grew closer, the residents of the island watched with anticipation.
She couldn’t bear to disturb the rabbit, but her legs were cramping from crouching off the road to study the animal. She’d have to move soon.
A sound from the road alarmed the rabbit, and it dropped the remainder of the grass stalk and scampered into the underbrush. Francie rose to her feet, wincing as she realized that one of her legs had gone to sleep.
It was only a cart bearing workmen to the hotel construction site, with Emerson, the yellow dog, running behind it. Francie looked with longing at the empty spot under the ferns where the rabbit had been. She sighed and made her way back to Sea Breeze, where a quiet garden awaited her.
Soon she was settled in Aunt Dorothea’s garden, away from the activity of the hotel construction. The petunias, with their rich earthy aroma, were opened to the morning sunshine.
In Francie’s hands, the petunias were transformed on paper into hats for tiny wrens. The story began to unfold in her mind as she drew the birds celebrating a summer birthday.
She sketched rapidly, capturing each bird’s personality as it appeared on paper. As she did, she softly whistled the birdsong she’d heard earlier.
“You do that very well.”
Her hand twitched in surprise, and she pulled it off the paper just in time to keep from drawing a stray line across her sketch. “Thomas!”
He reached down and took the sketchbook from her. “You did this?”
She nodded. “Yes.” As she began to stand, he reached down and helped her to her feet.
“You have quite a talent.”
“Thank you very much.” She dusted stray bits of grass and dirt from the skirt of her dress.
“These birds are extremely realistic. I’m not sure, however, that they would wear flowers upended on their heads.” He held the drawing out at arm’s length and studied it with a bemused expression on his face.
“These do. They’re having a birthday party.”
“A birthday party?”
“Yes.”
“Do you really think birds have parties?”
“Do you think they don’t?”
Her quick response was teasing, but he didn’t smile immediately. Then he laughed and said, “Oh, I see. You have an artist’s overactive imagination.”
She responded, somewhat stiffly. “Did you come to the garden for a specific reason? Or did you just want to insult me?”
“Insult?” He stared at her. “I’ve insulted you? Trust me, I didn’t mean to.”
“Perhaps you didn’t intend to,” she said evenly, “but I don’t think of my artistic ability as an ‘overactive imagination.’ I see it as a gift—a gift from God.”
“Our Lord provides us with His bounty,” he said. “Certainly, as a minister’s son, I’m aware of that.” Was there a trace of bitterness in his voice? She must be misinterpreting it.
“You don’t approve of my sketches, I gather.” She’d met with amused tolerance from her family, but this was different.
“It’s not whether I approve or not,” he answered. “I must admit, however, that I am not at all artistically endowed.”
“We have all been gifted differently. I know that God has given you talents that are uniquely yours.”
His lips thinned into a straight line. “When I draw a cat, it looks like a horse. When I sing, dogs howl. My poetry sounds as if I am unlearned. Gifts? I think not.”
“You have others.”
“For someone who’s just met me, you seem to have a comprehensive knowledge of who I am and what I’m like. I find that interesting.”
“You are God’s child,” she said simply. “That’s enough.”
A faint smile softened his lips. “So what, Miss Francie Woods, do you believe are my gifts?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she responded a bit primly. This conversation was on the verge of getting quite personal, but as the child of missionaries, she was always ready to share God’s presence. “In the book of Jeremiah, though, we can read that God has plans for us.”
He nodded. “True.” Then he grinned. “I never dispute the Word of the Lord.”
“You’re a smart man.” God, please help me with the words I need to touch this man’s heart, she prayed. The pain she heard—or thought she heard—in his voice struck her heart. “We all have been blessed with those traits which make us special to each other—and to Him. Not all gifts are artistic. What about the gift of healing? Of listening? Of reaching out? There are so many I cannot even begin to think of them all, let alone name them.”
“Even for one such as I?”
“I do know this—you are an intelligent man. That is a gift, indeed, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” He looked directly at her, and in his golden eyes, she saw only confusion. “Perhaps it is a burden of insurmountable proportions.”
And
with those enigmatic words, he turned and walked out of the garden.
Thomas’s feet led him aimlessly through the summertime glory of Mackinac Island. Horses leading carts of visitors clip-clopped their way past him, but he barely noticed them, so deep in thought was he.
At last, the path led him to the Grand Hotel. The construction site buzzed with activity, and he joined the others who had stopped to look at the progress. The yellow dog he had seen earlier moved through the group, gobbling up the occasional bit of bread that fell to the ground from an onlooker’s hand.
“This is the best thing to happen to Mackinac Island,” said one man, and another agreed.
“It’s a mistake, a terrible mistake.” Thomas couldn’t stop the words that popped out of his mouth.
The small group of observers grew silent, and they all turned to look at him. “Why would you say that?” asked one man.
He might as well finish what he started, although from the looks he was getting, it was clear that he should never have said anything.
He frowned at the hotel. “This is Mackinac Island. It’s not New York City. Who’s going to stay in this hotel?”
“Visitors,” boomed the man next to him. “Mark my words, we’ll have more folks coming over if they have a spectacular place like the Grand Hotel in which to stay.”
Thomas harrumphed. “More people coming here? Sorry, but I just don’t see it. As sure as the sun rises every morning in the east, this hotel is going to go down in the island’s history as a massive misstep.”
“You don’t know that,” one voice in the crowd shot back.
“I know enough business theory to—”
One man stepped forward. Thomas recognized him as the owner of one of the shops, a well-respected and outspoken member of the community. The businessman hooked his thumbs in his suspenders and began to speak.
“To do what? Start a hotel? Ha. Everything you know, you learned in school.”
A murmur of assent ran like a current through the gathering, and the shop owner continued. “Let me tell you, young fellow, you may be living a life of grace and money, enough to buy you a university education, but that’s not going to teach you anything of value in this life. People aren’t theories, and no matter how hard you try, they’re going to resist being pigeonholed by your cockamamy ‘theories,’ which are, to tell the truth, not much more than great big guesses.”
The Valiant Hearts Romance Collection Page 30
