Secret Hearts

by J. L. Jarvis

  The last member of the Ladies’ Shakespearean Society bid Maggie a cordial goodbye and departed from the group’s Thursday lecture. “Ophelia—what a beautiful name,” she thought as she busied herself returning chairs to their usual places and organizing the library just enough to fill the void in the remainder of her day. She returned the last book to its shelf and headed back to her desk. As she rounded the last row of shelves, she stopped abruptly. Before she could smooth back her hair or wipe the book dust from her hands, Andrew Adair turned and smiled with white teeth and blue eyes.

  Maggie’s eyes shone with emotions she thought she’d understood from her reading. He stepped toward her and handed her a bundle of three books bound in green pebble-grain cloth and tucked inside a cloth slipcase. The bundle was tied together with a dusty rose-colored ribbon of watermarked taffeta.

  “Miss MacLaren. I hope you don’t mind. I thought you might like this.”

  Maggie glanced up at him. She feared he could hear her heart. Andrew nodded toward the books in his hands and, for the first time, Maggie looked at the title. “The Woodlanders!” Her fingers caressed the gilt lettering with unabashed delight, until the thought came to her that perhaps she had assumed too much. She reigned in her emotions. “It’s a lovely donation for the library. How generous of you.”

  He looked down with the most endearingly bashful grin, and then lifted his eyes. Brilliant gray-blue eyes locked onto hers. “Well, actually, I intended it as a gift for you, Miss MacLaren.”

  Maggie’s heart skipped a beat, no doubt resting up for the pounding that followed. “Oh.” Breathe, Maggie. “Thank you, but—no. I can’t accept this.”

  “But I want you to have it.”

  “Mr. Adair.” She paused, for his eyes smiled—along with the rest of his face, she could only assume, since she could not avert her gaze from his. She went on. He continued to smile as though words didn’t matter. “Mr. Adair, this is very kind of you. And I do thank you for the gesture.” With no small regret, Maggie held out the books for him to take. Andrew took the bundle of books and, in doing so, placed his hands upon hers.

  Maggie glanced at the books and their joined hands. Then she lifted her gaze to his eyes. They were the color of a windless lake, into which she was sinking. He offered no help. He just watched her with deepening interest, and perhaps some small pleasure. Maggie endeavored to keep her shallow breaths silent.

  The front door of the library opened. Jake walked in and, seeing the two of them, glanced away, but not before he met Maggie’s eyes with a sharp look that ran through her. Maggie slipped her hands from beneath Andrew’s.

  “Since you refuse me, may I donate them to the library?” Andrew’s charm overpowered her.

  “I suppose so.” Andrew seemed so self-possessed. She was not. Her heart whirled wildly.

  Andrew said, “Well then, I hereby donate this set of books to the Johnstown Public Library.” He looked into her eyes to a place she had never allowed Jake to glimpse for more than an instant.

  Jake studied Maggie with wonder, and then eyed Andrew with suspicion. In this moment, Maggie’s face was more legible than anything else in the library. His heart compelled him, overriding his good sense, to pore over her face, the sweet expression for which he had longed. And now with such ease, she regarded this man, whom she’d known scarcely a week, with—Jake clenched his teeth—interest. He fixed his eyes on her, hoping the sight would sear her heart until it was numb. Or his. And while he did, he would come to terms with his torment.

  When he was able, Jake stole toward the wall then up and down row after row of books, leaning his head against spines of volumes whose content mocked his lack of schooling. When footsteps drew near, he would pick up a book and pretend to read, but the letters would thicken and render no meaning. He wished, as he slammed a book closed, he didn't have to bear witness to love as it passed him by on the way to another. And yet, he could not look away.

  Maggie studied the bundle of books but didn't touch them again. Her eyes darted about the library as though she didn't know what to do with books in such a place. The propriety of accepting a gift from a relative stranger seemed no longer of any import, for between one moment and another, the books had become charged with emotion that passed from his hand to hers.

  His eyes never strayed from hers as he set down the bundle. Maggie glanced at the books, and then back at Andrew.

  Jake watched from a well-measured distance. With such ease the stranger disarmed her. But what could Jake do? Hearts weren't stolen; they were given away. “Maggie, darlin’,” Jake whispered to himself as he quietly walked out of the library and into the sun drenched afternoon. No amount of daylight could shed warmth on him now.

  Maggie took her time walking home from the library. Her head swam with the thrill of him. How could it be that this wealthy and handsome and wonderful gentleman had sought out her attention? And yet it was so. He had chosen her. Waves of euphoria washed over her heart until reason was reduced to sandy remnants.

  Minutes before, they had stood in the library together. Other people had moved about in the recesses of the building like distant echoes from a world in which she, herself, had lived until seconds before. She wanted always to remember that moment.

  When Andrew had set the books aside, his hands looked so smooth, his nails so well-trimmed. His eyes, what shade of blue were they? She recalled only how they felt when they looked inside her.

  In a hushed tone, he’d asked, “Miss MacLaren? Where are the books that nobody ever reads?” He charmed her. She wanted him to. She let him take her arm and lead her between rows of books, to a concealed corner of the library. He stopped and turned. Seeing his face, Maggie knew he would kiss her, and she knew his kiss would change her. She wanted it to.

  Maggie arrived at her doorstep without remembering the steps she had taken to get there. At the front door, she paused to let go of the memory she had carried with her all the way home.

  Two doors down, Jake sat on the porch, concealed by the overgrown forsythia’s tangled speckles of yellow. The abrupt sound of Maggie’s closing front door punctuated his pain. He didn't move, except to shut his eyes as if that would shield him. When it did not, he leapt to his feet and headed on foot to the nearest saloon.

  Chapter 5

  Allison gazed absent mindedly at the passing landscape as the surrey wended its way along the road from the train station to South Fork’s Lake Conemaugh. She barely took notice as Andrew and the other young man prattled on about the brilliance of his recent business venture.

  A classmate from Harvard, Powell Sutton had been raised on an Alabama cotton plantation. During the war, the Suttons came north and reinvested their wealth in steel to amass a great fortune, sufficient to open the doors to even the most elite social circles. This was fortunate for Powell since, as engaging as he was at first blush, his proclivities didn't lean toward matters of kindness or sincerity. Of course, women adored him during the early stages of acquaintance. His acerbic wit and delightful drawl enlivened any party. He was attractive enough, with the right blend of features, and an impenetrable aura of certitude. His eyes were a weapon, blue as fresh water in winter, and with a similar coating ice on the surface. Unexceptional height didn't prevent Powell from looking down upon others, for he artfully used repartee to deflect attention from the more physically imposing of his gender.

  However, his southern gentlemanly charm inevitably paled when he offended someone with his overextended wit. One came to expect the offense. It was only a question of when. Nevertheless, he possessed a manner of charm. To know Powell was to discount him, a fact which tended to make him forgivable. Thus, in any society, it was rare to find him without an audience, and rarer still to find in attendance anyone more enthralled with him than Powell himself.

  The surrey pulled into the cottage drive, forcing Allison to return from her distant thoughts. Andrew and Powell continued their banter as they hopped out, pausing long enough for Andrew to offer a hand to hel
p his sister step down.

  The man, who had driven in silence from the town to the lake, retrieved a small package from the seat of the carriage. He was long limbed and dark. Undeniably handsome, his commanding presence should have invited respect, though he seldom received it.

  “Thank you, Samuel,” Allison said as she reached out to take the parcel from him.

  Seeing this, Powell reached out before her and took hold of the parcel and thrust it back toward Samuel.

  “You shouldn’t be carrying that. Here. Let Sam do it.”

  Allison retrieved the package and said, “Mr. Sutton, it’s really not necessary—”

  Samuel bristled but continued on his way, neither stopping nor speaking. He had known Powell since college, where he had been Andrew’s friend, putting Samuel in the position of having to tolerate him, which was no easy task. Powell took every opportunity to remind Samuel not only that he was a Negro, but accordingly what his place should be, as Powell perceived it.

  “Now, Allison—” Powell turned smoothly and tried to take hold of her hand, but she clung to the parcel. Unruffled, Powell lifted his hand and, with a canny grin, said, “How long have you known me? You must call me Powell.”

  “You shouldn’t be carrying that, Allison,” said Samuel, with a voice deep and rich. He took hold of the parcel and, with a tone just on the edge of courtesy, said, “Here, let Powell do it.”

  Powell glared as though curses might burst from his eyes, but he met Allison’s eyes.

  “How good of you, Mr. Sutton,” Allison said with assiduous charm.

  Powell seethed but said nothing as he took the package. Allison nodded politely and walked on to the cottage without waiting for company. Samuel went the opposite way toward the carriage house, followed by Powell.

  Andrew stopped Powell with a hand to the shoulder. In a low voice, he said, “Samuel doesn’t work for us, and you know it. He’s family.”

  But he was not. Samuel Hollander was neither family nor servant but rather caught between worlds and pressed against boundaries set by the social order of the day.

  Samuel walked to his room in the carriage house, gritting his teeth. Had his childhood journey truly taken him anywhere at all?

  Samuel Hollander was born during planting time in Charleston, South Carolina, to a slave called Naomi, and her husband Elijah. Not long after, the master died. Having no children to survive him, he bequeathed his real property to a distant cousin and freed his slaves. There was great celebrating when they learned they were free. Full of hope, they made plans to go out in the world and begin their new lives.

  The morning they were to depart, the door to their shack flew open. Three days later they were sold at auction. Samuel never saw his father again. Despite the will, the estate was encumbered by a considerable sum of gambling debts, for which the slaves were sold in satisfaction.

  Naomi and Samuel stood before the new master, who handed Naomi two badges. “You and the boy have to wear these now,” said the man.

  The city of Charleston, troubled by its large population of freed men and women, had begun enforcing Badge Laws. All slaves were required by law to wear badges on their clothing to distinguish them from men and women of color who were free—free as she and Samuel would have been. She took the badges without a word. Behind her downcast eyes smoldered the remaining embers of her spirit.

  One crescent moonlit night, Naomi woke Samuel and ushered him out into the darkness and to a new life. But the trip on the Underground Railroad had been hard. Somewhere north of the Pennsylvania state line, Naomi’s journey ended. “Remember to keep your mind like the river: No matter how full it is, it still wants to grow,” she told him.

  Young Samuel soon found himself alone in Pittsburgh, where a minister found him asleep on the church steps and took him in. Suffragette and abolitionist, Lillian Adair learned of the boy’s plight. She took pity on him and brought him into her home until a more suitable home could be found. A more suitable home was never found. He was thus raised alongside her own two children, with the same educational opportunities and nearly all the same privileges.

  This didn't sit entirely well with her husband. Charles supported her efforts wholeheartedly, for her causes were good and just. It was wonderful for a woman to involve herself in charitable works and social reform. But she had brought her cause into his home. It was, after all, her cause and not his. Nevertheless, he had always considered himself a generous man. Now that the boy was here, he couldn’t quite turn him out. It might make him look bad in the eyes of his clients. So Charles admitted Samuel into his home, and eventually gave him a job at his law firm.

  Samuel stood outside the door to his room and watched Andrew and Powell walk down the path to the cottage. A cool breeze did nothing to refresh his disposition. He went inside and sat at his desk, but his thoughts wandered through the window to the cottage below. Whatever musings veiled his face he tried to banish as he opened a file and sifted through papers. For the most part, he viewed this work as his ruse against society from which he would get the last laugh.

  He skimmed through each page of the thick file. The firm would be handling some legal work for one of the club members. Samuel needed to review the file and acquaint himself with the issues in question. There were letters and titles and engineers’ findings—page after page, unrelentingly dry.

  The firm valued Samuel for his talent at spotting and deciphering issues as though they were pieces of a vast puzzle, which he could take apart and reassemble with uncanny facility. He could put words together, surpassing their purpose not only to persuade but to resound with elegance sometimes encountered but not always esteemed in the context of law.

  Samuel’s talent did not go unnoticed by his classmates at Harvard, some of whom were ashamed that a Negro could best them with such facility. However, Andrew Adair appreciated what Samuel had to offer, and did not feel the least bit threatened by the young man’s race or intellect when he allowed Samuel to bail him on numerous occasions from certain academic demise.

  Samuel understood how things were and made the best of his circumstances. When he graduated, Lillian saw to it that he walked into a job with the law firm of which Charles Adair was a partner. Time and again, Samuel analyzed overlooked issues, formulated better strategies, and alerted the firm to impending crises. Having ignored his sound opinions on a few pivotal occasions to their detriment, the firm eventually deigned to follow his advice. Before long, he had proved himself an indispensable asset to the firm. As a clerk. While the firm had come to admire his work, there were some in the firm who feared clients might feel…uncomfortable working with a Negro attorney. This, of course, didn't stop them from allowing Samuel to perform the work, but he did so without the concomitant title.

  Andrew’s great strength was his understanding of his own limitations, for he seldom took action without seeking Samuel’s counsel. His great weakness, however, was his willingness to take credit for the results.

  Samuel tolerated the arrangement like an illness that would not abate, but he dreamed of a different life and planned carefully for it. While Charles Adair looked out for appearances, he nevertheless prided himself on his fairness, for he paid Samuel well for the use of his talent—almost as much as he paid his son, Andrew.

  On a Pittsburgh street one day, Samuel walked past a prominent business mogul with whom he had corresponded extensively under Andrew’s letterhead. He inwardly laughed as he imagined how the man would react if he were to find out with whom he really had been doing business. Yet his laughter proved hollow and ultimately unsatisfying.

  Samuel longed for a place to belong. No matter how full the river, it still wants to grow. His mother’s voice sounded in his memory. Samuel was mindful of how far he had come but tormented by the vision of where he should be. Visions were too often eclipsed by reality.

  Powell was but one more reminder of the pride Samuel could not fully swallow. He sat at his desk staring at papers until his eyes clouded. He slammed t
he file shut. Outside his window, the leaves of the maple tree rustled. The sound should have soothed him. But Samuel looked at the tree and his mood grew restless. The maple waved its branches in protest against a rising wind.

  Chapter 6

  Beth pulled the gossamer ribbon into a tight bow, then fluffed and arranged her daughter’s hair until it looked just right. She looked down at Robin with a mother’s pleased smile. Robin twirled around until her nut-brown tresses found their way back to where they wanted to be, then skipped merrily out the back door.

  A knock at the front door brought Maggie hurrying down the stairs to the front door, where she stood and took three slow breaths before opening the door with her best approximation of a serene smile. There he stood. Andrew Adair. He was noble and handsome, and hers. She dared to believe it because she saw it in his eyes.

  Beth hesitated in the kitchen, then walked down the short hallway to meet Maggie’s gentleman. Maggie knew Beth would put him at ease with her quiet, simple way. She could draw a conversation from strangers, all the while making them feel as though they had known her for years. This, in turn, helped to calm Maggie.

  Andrew followed Maggie into the front room and sat down on the davenport while Beth went to prepare some tea. He glanced about the room which, though humble, was warm and welcoming. The fireplace, the draped heirloom table, and the braided wool rug were separately unremarkable. Yet after repeated glances about the room, he began to notice the scattered and draped bits of crocheted and embroidered needlework hung over arms and leaves of cheap manufactured furniture. And then, on a decorative easel he noticed a small drawing in a simple frame, placed in the corner where no one was likely to notice it. He studied it intently, and then rose to view it more closely. It was a delicate sketch of an angel, comprised of freely flowing pencil strokes and muted shading.