Rhyme or Reason

by Amelia C. Adams

  “Is there another poet I’m supposed to be reading? Perhaps you could make some recommendations. I don’t believe there’s a book titled Poetry for Angels, is there?”

  “No,” he said, taking a step back. This woman was clearly not in her right mind. He glanced toward the door, wondering if the marshal might be available at the moment. Or the doctor. His visitor didn’t look dangerous, but one never knew when a delusional person might become violent.

  “I’m not delusional,” she said, resting her elbow on the bookshelf nearest her. “I’m not a threat to you at all. In fact, I’m here to help you.”

  How had she known what he was thinking? Tobias supposed it might have been a natural and obvious guess, but he was rattled nonetheless. “You’re my guardian angel?” he repeated stupidly.

  “Yes. I’ve been watching over you since you were tiny. Oh, goodness. Do you remember the time that huge dog chased you home from school? You must have been . . . oh, seven. That was a lot of hard work, I assure you.”

  Tobias had been chased home by a huge dog when he was seven. How on earth had she known that? “Hard work?”

  “Holding back on his collar. He was almost bigger than me, and he was certainly stronger.”

  “You held back on his collar?”

  “Well, of course. That’s my job.” She looked at him pointedly. “Are you going to repeat everything I say? You’re just like Wendell, aren’t you? Of course, he listened to me in the end, and now he and Ariadne are very happy. In fact, they’re going to have a baby, although I probably shouldn’t have announced that before they did. I’m sure it was careless of me, but I’m rather excited about it.”

  “Wendell . . . and Ariadne? You know them?”

  Miss Chapel shook her head. “Oh, dear boy. Yes, I know them. I’m their angel too. I know it must be shocking to learn that you’re not the only one, but I can handle several cases at once. It’s a special talent, you see. Not that I’m bragging—all angels have this talent, not just me.”

  “That’s not why I’m shocked.” Tobias sat down on a nearby stepstool and rubbed his eyes. “I’m not sure about this whole concept of guardian angels. I’ve never believed in them.”

  “Again, so much like Wendell. Perhaps that’s why I was given the two of you—I’d know how to deal with your type.”

  “Our type?”

  “Yes. The non-believing type. Listen to me, Tobias. It doesn’t matter one penny if you do or do not believe in angels. That doesn’t make them any less or any more real. A fact is a fact and will always remain so, regardless of who agrees with it. I’m here, I’m an angel, and I’ve come to help you. That’s a fact that cannot be changed. Your choice in the matter is whether you would like to accept my help. You don’t get to decide whether or not angels are real.”

  She certainly didn’t hold back. Tobias nodded. “I . . . I’d like to hear what you have to say.”

  “Wonderful!” She was all smiles again. She certainly could change her emotions at the flick of an eyelash. “As I was saying, I’ve been sent here to offer you hope. Actually, not just you—the men of Creede.”

  “The men of Creede?”

  She put a hand on her hip. “There you go again, repeating everything I say. I suggest you let me finish—things might make more sense that way.”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry. Please, go on.” He’d just apologized to an angel. Things were getting weirder and weirder.

  “As I was saying, you need hope, especially when it comes to finding romantic love. Poetry is the greatest source of hope for romantic love that can be found in today’s literature, and therefore, I wish to propose that you, Tobias Redfern, begin a poetry class right here in your shop for the lonely men of Creede.” She looked at him as though she thought she’d just said something simply marvelous.

  Tobias stared at her. “I don’t understand,” he said after a long moment.

  “What’s so difficult to understand? This town is full of men eager to settle down, who are tired of coming home to cold houses at night, who are longing for someone to share their lives with. Think of the good you could be doing here, Tobias. Think of the lives you could change.”

  “But . . . but . . . how is poetry going to help them find wives?” He waved his arm toward the front of the shop. “There are more men than women in town, Miss Chapel. It doesn’t matter how much poetry we read—that’s one of those facts you were talking about.”

  “Young man, do you honestly think I’m not aware of the situation in this town? I’ve been here before, if you’ll recall, and I always do my research. At this very moment, there are several young women on their way to Creede. I can’t go into all the details of who they are or why they’re coming—we’ll just say that God works in mysterious ways. What’s most needed is for the men to be ready for them. When they arrive, they need to see men who have been refined, who have some culture, who know how to woo a girl in the moonlight. And that is a task best suited to you.”

  Tobias stood up and began to pace. “Are you saying I should become some sort of matchmaker?”

  “Oh, gracious no!” Miss Chapel seemed shocked. “Men would be terrible matchmakers. I’m saying that you should open your shop in the evenings, say once a week, invite the men to join you, and hold a poetry reading. Use your most excellent poetry bookshelf here as your guide. Open their minds, expand their horizons—many of these men spend their whole lives in the mines, and they never get a chance to see the beauty around them. Show them that beauty, Tobias. Don’t let them keep their heads down in the dark.”

  “You should have been a poet yourself, Miss Chapel.”

  “Oh, I know. And I’ve tried. But alas, there was a different calling for me.” She fixed him with another look. “Will you do it, Tobias? Will you give these men some hope? Will you help prepare them for the loves who are about to enter their lives?”

  “I just don’t know.” Not only was he unsure about his ability to lead such a class, but he wasn’t sure that he should be taking instruction from a crazy woman with a preposterous hat.

  “I believe in you. And furthermore, you owe me.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. Not only did I save you from that dog bite, but do you remember the time when you were playing by the railroad tracks, and you got your foot caught between the ties?”

  “I broke my ankle! How did you save me from that?”

  “My dear boy, there was a train coming. If you hadn’t broken your ankle and thereby managed to wiggle free, you would have been crushed.”

  As he thought about it, Tobias did remember a train whistle in the distance. “You broke my ankle?”

  She looked a little uncomfortable. “I didn’t break your ankle, so to speak. I did what had to be done to save your life. And here you are, and I see that you’re walking just fine—yes, as you pace angrily, throwing those glares at me. Not a single limp. You wouldn’t be here to glare at me if it wasn’t for what I did, so therefore, you owe me.”

  He sighed. She was right—if she really had been there, and if she really had helped free him, of course he owed her his loyalty. He wasn’t entirely convinced, however, and he wanted to test it just a bit further.

  “What was the name of my dog when I was ten?”

  “Randy,” she replied without hesitation.

  “What was my favorite book when I was twelve?”

  “The Last of the Mohicans. That one was actually a favorite until you were fifteen.” She seemed to wait for another question, and when he didn’t speak, she said, “Are we quite finished? Your favorite teacher was Miss Quinn, your best friend was Timothy, your favorite color is brown—although I have no idea why—and you enjoy apple pie. I know you better than you know yourself, Tobias. When are you going to believe me?”

  “I . . . I suppose I’ll have to start believing you now. There’s no other explanation for how you could know everything you do.” It was beyond anything and everything Tobias had ever believed, but it had to be real. He wasn�
��t imagining her—she had form and substance, and if he were to imagine someone, they wouldn’t be wearing such a horrendous hat. He couldn’t have made that hat up in his own mind, that was for sure.

  She seemed very pleased. “I’m glad, Tobias. I’ve loved you and cared about you for so long, it’s nice that you can now get to know me a bit.”

  “So . . . everyone has an angel, but not everyone knows it?” She hadn’t said that outright, but that’s what he inferred from their conversation thus far.

  “Yes, and it’s the saddest thing. Some angels are never recognized and never thanked, and they wonder if they’re even appreciated for all their hard work. Situations like this where we’re allowed to interact and have conversations and whatnot are rare, and we’re the lucky ones when we get to participate.”

  “That would be sad.” Tobias had never considered such a thing, angels being new to him and all, but suddenly his heart felt a little heavy. How many people didn’t know or understand that they were being loved and protected? And how many angels were sad because of it?

  “It’s all right, Tobias,” she said, touching his shoulder. “We all know it’s part of the job, and we’re happy to do it. It’s not about the recognition anyway—it’s about bringing hope, and that takes us right back around to what I was talking about before. Will you teach that class? I know it’s a strange request, but it will bring about so much good. Ripples in a pond—we sometimes never know what we’re creating or influencing by our small actions.”

  He nodded. “I’ll do it.” Twenty minutes ago, such a thing wouldn’t have seemed possible. Now he was eager to do it. Amazing how twenty minutes could change someone’s mind so completely.

  “Thank you, Tobias. And remember—this isn’t just a poetry class. It’s so much more.”

  And then she was gone. She didn’t fade away, and she didn’t turn and walk out. But one minute she was there, and the next, she wasn’t.

  Tobias pulled in a deep breath. An angel had just appeared in his bookstore and given him the charge to teach a poetry class to the men of Creede.

  All right. It sounded like he had some work to do.

  Chapter Three

  Louisa smoothed down the front of her dress and took a deep breath. Maybe it wasn’t just train travel that made her feel sick—it had been several hours since she’d gotten off the train, and here she was, feeling ill again. Her former neighbor, Granny Clay, would have peered into her eyes and asked her if she’d been doing things she shouldn’t, but Louisa knew that wasn’t a possibility. It was her nerves this time, nerves that she’d thought she’d gotten well under control.

  “Miss Brown? Mr. Westcott will see you now.”

  Louisa smiled at the young woman who had come to fetch her. Alice, her name was. With another deep breath, Louisa straightened her shoulders and walked from the wings out onto the stage at the Creede Theater.

  “Miss Brown, we’re delighted you could join us,” came a voice from somewhere in the seats. She couldn’t see past the lanterns that lined the stage, so she just smiled in the direction of the voice. “Please give us the selection you’ve prepared, and then we’ll discuss it, all right?”

  “Of course. It’s my pleasure.” She nodded down to the conductor in the orchestra pit, glad she could see the top of his head, if nothing else, and he led the violins into the opening notes of “Lascia Ch'io Pianga.”

  She would have preferred to meet Mr. Westcott before singing, but she wouldn’t let her preferences distract her from her performance. She’d chosen this particular song because of its sweetness. It wasn’t as powerful as some of the others, but it showed her vocal strength and her range.

  When she was finished, she gave a slight curtsy, then smiled down at the conductor. It was a good orchestra, one she hoped to work with often.

  There was no response from the darkness of the seats, but a moment later, she heard footsteps approaching from the wings, and she turned to see a tall man of about thirty walking toward her, his hand outstretched.

  “Miss Brown, that was lovely,” he said, taking her hand and giving it a slight squeeze before letting go. “I wasn’t anticipating that selection, but I have to say, I’m glad you chose it. I’ve grown rather tired of Carmen and the like.”

  “I love Carmen,” Louisa replied.

  “I do too, but when it’s all I’ve heard since it was first produced, it does tend to become less enjoyable.” He held out his arm and motioned off the stage. “Let’s go talk in my office.”

  She followed him off the stage and down a long hallway to the end. His office was rather simple, comprised of a desk and a few chairs, with a cabinet in the corner. It was neither fancy nor shabby. In fact, it wasn’t much of anything at all—there weren’t even pictures on the walls.

  He must have guessed what she was thinking. “It’s a new building, and we haven’t yet added all the details we’d like,” he said. “I promise that by the time we’re done, everything will be just right. Our first priority was the stage and the seating for the audience.”

  “As it should be.” She smiled, hoping she could fool him into thinking she was calm. “I’d like to thank you for the invitation to come here.”

  “And I’d like to thank you again for accepting the invitation.” He leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Creede is a town with a lot of history, even though it’s not very old. It’s been ravaged by fire on more than one occasion, and the people here are trying to create new life from the ashes. When I decided to establish a theater, I knew I would be dealing with raw materials in more ways than one. Thankfully, the people here have been patient with my clumsy initial attempts, and our last few endeavors have been pretty good, if I might be conceited enough to say so.”

  Louisa chuckled. “I’m sure it’s not conceit. There’s nothing wrong with feeling satisfied with one’s accomplishments.”

  He smiled. “Then I’ll say that I’m as satisfied as all get out. Now, this is where you come in. I’d like to introduce some opera into town. Reverend Bing—have you met him yet?”

  Louisa shook her head. “I only arrived here last night.”

  “Well, at some point, you’ll be meeting Reverend Bing. He’s been on a crusade of sorts to build up this area and establish schools and businesses. He was pleased when I told him I’d asked you to come.”

  “That brings me to a question, Mr. Westcott. I was very glad to get your letter, but I can’t imagine how you happened to hear of me.”

  “Oh, didn’t I say? No, I suppose I forgot. Your aunt was great friends with my mother, and she often wrote of your accomplishments. When I decided to search for an opera singer who might be willing to come this great distance, I mentioned it to my mother in passing, and she recalled hearing your name.”

  Louisa blinked several times, not believing what she was hearing. “My aunt spoke highly of me?”

  “Almost incessantly, from what my mother says.” He paused. “You seem troubled. Is something wrong, Miss Brown?”

  “No, not at all. I just didn’t realize my aunt felt that way about me.” She’d have to push that aside and think about it later. “My aunt passed away some time ago—how did you locate me?”

  “Her solicitor has stayed in touch with you, and he passed along your information. I hope that was all right, that he didn’t betray your privacy.”

  Louisa was so confused. “I haven’t spoken with her solicitor since she died.” Since he’d told her that she would be receiving no money whatsoever.

  “That’s odd. Perhaps you should inquire with him.” Mr. Westcott seemed to dismiss the topic from his mind. “How long are you able to stay in Creede?”

  “As long as the situation suits. I don’t have any other commitments as of yet.”

  “Excellent. And how did you find the lodging we arranged?”

  “Oh, it was very nice. Mrs. Handy set up a nice room for me and fed me well before I started out this morning.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I didn’t like the
thought of putting you up in a hotel. Mrs. Handy has taken in several of our guest artists since we opened, and has done a good job of it.”

  Louisa nodded, trying to look as though she was paying attention, but she just couldn’t stop wondering about her aunt’s solicitor. She most certainly would be inquiring with him—the very minute this was concluded.

  Mr. Westcott spoke with her about a salary, a schedule, musical selections, and rehearsal times, and she made note of each thing and responded appropriately and professionally. She did all this with one segment of her brain while the other segments swirled around and twirled around and made her feel even dizzier.

  At last, Mr. Westcott rose, and she did as well. “I’m looking forward to this very much,” he said, extending his hand again, and she took it, grateful the interview was finally over. Under ordinary circumstances, she would have enjoyed this conversation very much, but these weren’t ordinary circumstances, and she was anxious to leave.

  Once outside again, she took a moment to steel herself, and then she asked of a passerby where she might find the telegraph office. She had a note to send.

  When she pushed open the door of the office, a kind-looking man turned from placing something on a cabinet and smiled at her. “Hello. May I help you?”

  “Yes, please. I’d like to send a telegram. I’m not sure what to say, though.”

  He chuckled. “I hear that a lot. Unfortunately, writing telegrams isn’t my specialty. I just send what you write.”

  She nodded. “I’m sure you could charge quite a bit if you did write them, though.”

  “It would take more fortitude and creativity than I currently have to spare.” He handed her a piece of paper and a pencil so she could begin to jot down her thoughts.

  She struggled for several minutes, but she just couldn’t condense everything she wanted to say into such a compact format. “I’m starting to wonder if a letter might be better,” she said. “I’m sorry to waste your time.”

  “It’s not a waste,” he told her. “If this gave you a chance to narrow down what you wanted to say, I consider it well spent.”