He tilted his head as if asking for more explanation.
“It’s my wish to make a present for my father’s next birthday. It will be his fiftieth, you see, and he has made his desire known to me for a particular gift, so I will do my best to oblige.”
“And that desire is what, Miss Vestal?”
“A book.”
“What sort of book?”
“Fiction.”
Henry lifted a palm. “Just any novel?”
“No, a specific story.” She wet her dry lips. “Turning the story into a book is my idea… well it’s Olivia’s, actually. My father would like to read a story that I’ve written… that I am writing. Olivia is the only person other than my father who knows about my writing, and I must ask that you keep this matter private.”
“Why?”
Air swooped into her lungs on a sharp inhale. She repeated his disrespectful question. “Why?”
“Yes, why do you believe writing a story to be a private matter?” His smile was gone. “In an isolated village as small as Good Springs, there are people praying for new stories to read. Did you ever consider them?”
“What? No. I mean, not that I don’t consider others, but this is a private matter within my family.” She lowered her voice to decrease the echo in the room. “I first read my story to my mother and now my father has asked to read it too. I’d like to present it to him on his birthday and do so without the entire village knowing of my pastime. Olivia thought it might be nice to have the story printed and bound for my father. I believe it would have made my mother proud.”
At the mention of her mother, Henry’s expression softened. He turned to the door and waved for her to follow him. They crossed the wet ground between the library and the print shop. He lit a candle on the worktable beside the press. “When is your father’s birthday?”
“The fourteenth of March.”
Henry wiped his face with both hands. “I have a very important project to finish by the twenty-first of March, which will take most of my waking hours between now and then.”
“Oh.” She dropped back a step, ready to leave him to his work. “Sorry to have bothered you. Thank you for your time.”
“Has your story been edited?”
“It will be once it’s finished.”
“Once it’s finished? But you said you had read the story to your mother.”
She didn’t need to be questioned, especially by some arrogant pressman who knew nothing about her story or her family or her private life. She marched toward the door then stopped abruptly to try one last time before leaving. “Will you print the story or not?”
“Not if it isn’t finished.”
Olivia had said Henry might not be pleasant but he would be fair. Hannah agreed about the unpleasant quality but had yet to witness his fairness. She whirled back around to face him. “How much time would you need for printing?”
“How many pages is it?”
She couldn’t say without knowing how she would change the ending and what else might come to her in the process, but she wasn’t about to give Henry Roberts those details. “About two hundred pages, handwritten.”
“Thus your trade for paper the other day.” He propped his left hand on his hip. The stumps from where he’d lost fingers formed a misshapen fist. “I’d need two weeks. No less.” He lifted a little box of letters from the worktable and picked through them. “Will you have it finished and edited by the first of March?”
A tinge of hope warmed her heart. “So, you will print it? Name your price. Candles? Apples? I can bake, sew, make soap—”
“Candles.” He lowered his chin, silencing her. “If you finish the story, not that I think you will, but if you do—”
She raised her voice. “Of course, I will finish it!”
“Of course, nothing.” He flattened his tone. “If you have been revising it for six years, I lack faith in your ability to complete it in four months.”
She straightened her spine, though it didn’t increase her stature. “I will indeed finish the story for my father.”
Henry shrugged as if unimpressed by her resolve. His fingers went back to riffling through the letters in the box, but his eyes moved from the letters to her and back. “Very well. Finish the story and bring it to me by the first of March. I must read it and consider it worthy of my press before I will agree to print it.”
Every nerve in her skin bristled. “I only want your printing not your opinion. How dare you!”
He set the box down and spread both hands on his worktable. Leaning forward, he leveled his gaze on her. “It is not a matter of what I dare and dare not do, Miss Vestal, as this is my press. I have very high standards of what I print. If I am to take the time to make the ink and set the type, not to mention the process of binding the book, I do indeed dare to first ensure the work deserves my expertise. If I find your story to be a noble literary work, I will print it. If it falls short of my standards in any way, I will not waste my ink.”
She crossed her arms. “You don’t think I could write a story worthy of your ink?”
“No.”
“Why? Because I am female?”
“No, because you make no sense in your speech, causing me to doubt your ability to bring logic to the page. You want your writing kept secret, yet you want your story brought to press. You consider the story unfinished, yet you read the completed story to your mother…” His voice lost its force when he spoke of her mother. He rubbed the palm of his scarred hand. “Since out of sentiment you’re determined to have it printed, I will read the finished work—if you can indeed finish it. If I deem it worthwhile, I will print and bind it for you… for your father. If not, you must accept my decision as one of business. It’s nothing personal, Miss Vestal. Try your best not to take offense.”
“Not to take offense?” A strong retort dissolved on her tongue. If his main concern with her ability to write was because he found her words lacked logic, arguing out of anger might only solidify his opinion. She took a slow breath and steadied her voice. “Thank you for your consideration. I will deliver the finished and edited manuscript to you before the first of March.” She stepped to the door allowing the air to cool her burning cheeks. Before walking away, she glanced back. “You are incorrect about one thing, though, Mr. Roberts. I bring logic to the page by empowering my stories first with emotion. Anyone who possesses the slightest insight into the human experience would appreciate the tension in my reasoning.”
Henry’s eyes widened, but in a fraction of a second he erased the surprise from his face. His faintly mischievous grin returned. “Good day, Miss Vestal.”
“Good day, Mr. Roberts.”
Chapter Eight
The sun sank behind the trees to the west, lining cumulous clouds with splotches of orange light. As Henry neared his workshop, he sucked on one of the hard candies his mother had set out in a glass dish after dinner. She’d made them with licorice, saying his favorite flavor would bring him comfort while he worked long into the night. Having his family’s encouragement empowered his determination to meet the elders’ challenge and secure village support for the printing press.
He reached for the doorknob but stopped short before he turned it. Something was amiss. When he had pulled the door closed before he left for dinner, he’d turned the knob a quarter to the left so a dark knot in the wood would be in the noon position. It was an old habit he’d started when he was young and his sisters enjoyed snooping in his room while he was gone. Once the print shop was his, he’d found a mark in the doorknob’s wood and positioned it precisely every time he left the shop.
He switched the candy to the other side of his mouth and glanced over his shoulder. Light glowed through the shuttered window of the library next door. A hammer’s muted pound thudded rhythmically. Gabe was finishing the bookshelves.
The chapel across the road was dark, as was the schoolhouse. No one was on the road in either direction.
Henry cracked open the door
and peered into his workshop before stepping inside. The pages he’d left hanging to dry quivered in the air that blew through the open doorway. Nothing else moved, but the blackness of the shadows behind the press had him reaching into his trouser pocket.
His fingers curled around his closed pocketknife just as his tongue curled around the candy. His heart thumped against the wall of his chest. He drew the knife from his pocket. What was he thinking? He wouldn’t stab a person. If anyone were in his shop, he or she would be a member of the community, possibly a child. He knew what it was like to have flesh ripped, and he’d never inflict that pain upon another individual.
He dropped the knife back into his pocket and took out a match instead. Striking it, he stepped inside and lit one of the candles he’d received in trade with Hannah.
As the flame spread upon the wick, he lowered the candle into a mirrored lantern then circled the room. He was alone, but someone had been here. A folded scrap of paper perched like a tent on his worktable. His named was scribbled in pencil on the note’s exterior. He unfolded it and read its one sentence: stay Away from hannah Vestal.
He looked at the windows, the open door, and back toward the unsigned note. Who would write such a message?
The writing’s quick slant and straight stems proved a masculine hand, ruling out the females in the village. Besides, he couldn’t imagine any woman in Good Springs writing a note like this. He’d hurt Cecelia Foster’s feelings last year, but her anger had since cooled.
So the note’s writer had to be a male. The mismatched usage of upper and lower case suggested a lack of education. That ruled out all the elders. So a young man must have written the note.
He flipped the paper over and rubbed a thumb along the deep pencil grooves. Whoever had written this was upset when he wrote it. But who?
He thought back to his visit from Hannah earlier in the day. She had made a point of asking for privacy, so it was doubtful she told anyone about the meeting. He couldn’t recall seeing or hearing anyone else on the road at the time, but he hadn’t been paying close attention. He’d been focused on beginning the New Testament project for the elders, and when Hannah came in, he’d been struck by a mixture of annoyance and intrigue.
Why would her coming to him with a business request infuriate any young man in the village?
The hammering stopped in the library next door. Henry folded the note and slid it into his shirt pocket as Gabe came into the workshop. He raised his chin at Gabe. “Done for the night?”
Gabe grinned. “Done for good. Shelves are up.”
“Did you see anybody come in here while I was gone?”
“No. Why?”
“Just curious.”
Gabe pointed a thumb toward the library. “I’ll clean up and get my tools tomorrow.”
Henry nodded then checked the ink on the pages hanging up to dry behind the worktable. “Does Hannah Vestal have a suitor?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“She and Olivia are friends, aren’t they?”
Gabe stepped to the other side of the worktable and pinched the edge of one of the wet pages. “They’ve been friends for years… since Mrs. Vestal died. Olivia helps Hannah with her writing.”
“So you know about Hannah’s writing.”
Gabe held up both hands in surrender. “And it’s between them. My wife tells me very little about Hannah’s visits, and I don’t ask questions.” He motioned to the printed pages hanging from the line. “You think you can do this?”
“Do what?”
“Meet the elders’ challenge. Print an error-free copy of the New Testament in four months.”
Henry had run the numbers twice. He had the paper, the ingredients for the ink so long as people brought him soot, and the determination. “If nothing happens to the press and I’m able to focus on only this task, I should have it done in time. I’ll have to work every night, but I don’t mind.”
Gabe pointed at the candle. “Oil lanterns would be brighter.”
“I don’t want fuel in here. One fiery spill and I could lose all of my work.”
“I suppose your mother is happy to make the extra candles for you.”
“Wasn’t my mother’s doing.” Henry turned to the press so Gabe wouldn’t see his face. “Hannah traded them for paper.”
Gabe smirked. “Hannah?”
“Yes.”
“That’s why you wanted to know if she has a suitor.”
Henry ignored the ache simmering inside his chest and drew the unsigned note from his pocket. He passed it to Gabe. “No. This was.”
Gabe frowned as he read it. “Who is it from?”
Henry shrugged. “Someone entered my shop while I was at dinner. They left it on my worktable.”
“Show it to Olivia. She will know whose handwriting it is.”
“I’d rather forget about it. Hannah would be embarrassed if the matter came to light.”
Gabe refolded the note and handed it back. “It might not be bad advice.”
“What?”
“To stay away from her… romantically. Don’t forget what happened with Cecelia.”
The mention of Cecelia made the ache in Henry’s chest expand. Was it his fault he didn’t have the patience for women, that they were so easily offended, that he preferred the quiet of his workshop to the incessant chatter of insecure girls who demanded constant attention?
So what if Hannah was different, complex, intriguing? He was done with putting his heart at risk for women who didn’t understand him. He held up his left hand to stop the conversation. It worked on everyone. “Believe me, I am not interested in Hannah Vestal.”
Chapter Nine
A violin’s melodious hum floated on the wind as Hannah accompanied Doris to the spring dance at the schoolhouse. The stiff edges of Hannah’s new dress shoes pressed into her ankles as Doris hurried them along. She reached for Doris’s arm. “No need to rush. We aren’t late.”
“The music has started.”
“Mr. Cotter is probably warming up.”
Doris craned her neck. “If Sarah gets there first, Benjamin will ask her to dance and not me.” She pointed through the waning twilight at the lamp-lit schoolhouse. “See, we’re late.”
Hannah let go of her arm. “Slow down. We don’t want to arrive red-faced and out-of-breath.”
“Everyone else is already there.”
“We would have been here sooner if you hadn’t insisted I wear curls.”
Doris flashed her a playful smile. “I had to. You’ve been looking dowdy lately.”
Hannah’s iron-formed curls bounced around her face as she and Doris trotted to the schoolhouse. She pushed the curls off her forehead, but they sprang back into place thanks to the floral-scented pomatum Doris had borrowed from Sarah Ashton. Dowdy or not, she never should have let Doris talk her into such frivolity.
Doris dashed ahead of her, climbing the schoolhouse steps in time with the music’s quick beat. Hannah hurried, not wanting her young sister to enter without a chaperone. The music’s volume rose as the door opened. A drum and mandolin joined the jolly tune.
The desks and chairs had been removed, leaving the long schoolroom void of seating and open for dancing and mingling. Doris’s flowery decorations adorned the walls at regular intervals. Young people danced in a formal circle while their chaperones—mostly older siblings—flanked the schoolhouse walls. The stuffy room already smelled of sweat and anxious adolescents.
It was the village custom for all attendees to dance at least once to show a good spirit. Hannah dearly loved to dance but doubted she’d be asked. She enjoyed watching people more than dancing, and there was plenty to observe.
She leaned close to Doris’s ear and raised her voice over the music. “Your decorations look beautiful. Well done!”
Doris smiled then stood on her tiptoes. “Anthony is playing the drum. Isn’t he handsome?”
She chuckled at her starry-eyed sister. “I thought you were hoping Benjamin wou
ld ask you to dance tonight.”
“Either one.” Doris giggled then nudged Hannah. “It appears you have an admirer.”
Hannah scanned the crowd of young people and chaperones. “Who?”
Doris shielded her mouth with a gloved hand. “Henry Roberts.”
She followed Doris’s line of sight to Henry. He stood near the dance floor with one hand casually in his trouser pocket and the other hand smoothing the back of his coppery brown hair. When their gaze met, a mixture of aggravation and attraction wrestled inside her. She looked away. “He’s probably here as Ellenore’s chaperone.”
“He’s been watching you since we walked in. You should talk to him.”
“I will not.”
“He is a dapper sort of fellow. I’ll talk to him.”
“You will do no such thing.” She pinched the back of Doris’s arm. “He’s twice your age.”
Doris giggled again then dashed off to join her friends. The girls she was so worried about competing with fawned over her dress and petted her puffed sleeves.
Hannah glanced around the room for an empty spot along the wall where she might take refuge. Voices swelled as the dancers laughed and the observers shouted to keep their conversations alive over the music. Reverend Colburn stood beneath one of the flower wreaths at the head of the classroom, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the Land. Hannah understood the feeling but couldn’t pass up this opportunity to glean inspiration for her story.
Her brother David stood across the room with some of the village’s older boys. They weren’t boys anymore but young men; many of them were in training with their fathers to one day be village elders, but for tonight they were young men perusing a spring dance, hopeful to catch the eye of a young lady.
What if Prince Aric were in a similar situation when he first noticed Adeline? What if instead of the drab scene where he meets Adeline on the road, they meet at a ball? A masquerade? She might be in borrowed clothes or trying to disguise herself to slip through the palace and he mistakes her for a courtier. Or maybe she’s working the ball as a servant, picks up a lost mask, and he thinks she is one of them. No, mistaken identity was used too frequently in romantic tales. The test of Aric’s love should be in committing to a commoner against his parents’ wishes, not in finding reasons to love her after being deceived.
The Uncharted Beginnings Series Box Set Page 48
