“And you think that makes her unable to fall in love,” Lenore said, sniffing back tears. “I was sheltered myself, Kolbein, but I found ways to expose myself to the world around me. Not only that, but I certainly know my own heart.” She looked at him as if seeing a stranger. “I don’t know what to say about this. It’s breaking my heart that you should think me too young to know how I feel.”
“I . . . I didn’t say that,” Kolbein replied, hesitating. What could he possibly say that would make this better? Lenore was only twenty and all she would hear is that he thought that too young to marry. The truth was, he still believed that, yet he wanted very much to make Lenore his wife.
Lenore shook her head. “You believe me too young to marry. Isn’t that true?” The tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she held her head high.
“I suppose I do. But I—”
“Never mind. I don’t need to hear anything more. Tell my father I shall wait for him in his office. Good day, Mr. Booth.” She hurried from the room.
Kolbein followed her to the door, trying to get her to stay and talk about the matter, but she’d have no part of it. He could hear her sobs as she made her way down the stairs. What was he to do? He thought to follow her but held himself in check. What could he possibly say to make this better? He needed time to consider their relationship. Just then the large grandfather clock struck two. He shook his head, knowing it would have to wait. He had to be back in the office by two-thirty.
“Mr. Booth,” Miss Poisie said, coming up beside him, “whatever are you doing staring out across the stairs?” She stretched a bit to peer beyond him. “Is something amiss?”
“I’m afraid so, Miss Poisie. I have hurt Lenore’s feelings by suggesting she’s too young for marriage.” He looked at the older woman and shrugged. “I suppose I have lost the woman I love.”
“Nonsense,” Miss Poisie replied. “Have I ever told you about my beloved sea captain, Jonathan Richards? God rest his soul.”
Kolbein restrained from adding an amen and instead shook his head. “I don’t believe you have.”
“Well, Jonathan was the love of my life and I of his.” She clutched her hands together and drew them to her heart. “He was the captain of the Sea Vixen—a fishing vessel. He was a most amazing man, and we were to be married.”
“What happened?” Kolbein asked, knowing that he really should put an end to the conversation and return to his office.
“He went north for fishing and never returned. The Sea Vixen was lost at sea. They found the wreckage a year later on the Canadian shores, but nothing of the men who served.” Her face grew quite sad. “That was ten years ago, and I still mourn him. I will never stop loving him, just as I do not believe Miss Lenore will ever stop loving you. Lovers’ quarrels are short-lived if sensible heads prevail.”
“But I had always thought a woman should be older before marrying. Even here at the school most of your young ladies are older than twenty.”
“It’s true. Most of these women were unable to find love on their own. Goodness, some of them could barely boil water, and what man would want a wife who couldn’t cook him a decent meal. I tell you, Mr. Booth, the stomach finds very little satisfaction on emotion alone.”
Kolbein had never really heard Miss Poisie speak her mind. Usually her sister or Mrs. Gibson was quicker to share, and she often remained in the background, quiet and reserved.
“But Lenore is only twenty. My sister is but nineteen, and I thought her too young to marry. How am I to yield my viewpoint for the sake of my own happiness?”
“A wise man is willing to acknowledge when he has been foolish or . . .” Miss Poisie paused. “Dare I say . . . wrong? I was hardly young when I made the acquaintance of my beloved, but age had no bearing. I do not believe it will cause issue for your circumstance, either.
“Now, please understand, I would not have any young girl up and marrying the first man she meets. No, I am a firm believer in seeking the truth, and that truth can only come from God. You should pray about the matter, Mr. Booth. Pray and ask for God’s guidance. He is always willing to offer wisdom to those who ask.”
The quarter hour chimed, and Kolbein knew he would have to go. “Thank you for your advice, Miss Poisie.” He gave a slight bow. “I will take this to the Lord, as you suggest.”
Days after her encounter with Wade, Abrianna was still fuming. She’d never felt this much frustration with anyone. It was bad enough that he’d forced her back to the school as if she were a wayward child, but then he had done the unspeakable. Wade had told her aunts what she’d done. Now they were monitoring her every move. There was no chance for escape, and Abrianna’s irritation was growing by the minute.
“He had no right,” she told Militine as they washed windows. “He had no right to tattle on me. I was only looking out for the good of my loved ones.”
“You are much braver than I would be.” Militine picked up a piece of newspaper and began wiping the glass. “I would have been scared witless to even try such a thing. What if that man had been the killer? He might have killed you.”
“The murders have only been of men. I doubt that the killer would attack me.”
“But you don’t know that,” Militine countered. “I think you should be more careful. I would hate for you to be harmed. You’re my only friend.”
Abrianna sighed. “You are also dear to me, but there are matters that I need to be tending. One of the soiled doves recently had a baby. I promised to bring flannel for diapers. Then there was a fight several nights ago, and two of my good friends were injured.”
“Sailors?”
“Yes, old sailors, men who have nothing but time on their hands. Goodness, Militine, you should see them. They have been healthy and hearty all of their lives, but now they are old and broken down. They are discarded by the world without regard. I would have that changed by law.” She held up her hand. “I know I sound more Democrat than Republican in my thinking, but I’m really not either. Imagine, however, if we had a law that made it wrong to harm them. What if we were required to help those who were without work or unable to do for themselves?”
“That would be a huge task, Abrianna. Besides, there are already numerous laws. It’s against the law to murder someone, yet we have a killer out there doing just that. Laws are only as good as they can be enforced.”
“I suppose that’s true. There are over six hundred laws in the Bible,” Abrianna said thoughtfully. “God couldn’t get folks to obey those, either. That’s why He had to sacrifice His Son on the cross.” She shook her head. “With people no more appreciative than they were, I’m not even sure why God bothered. Sometimes I don’t know why He bothers with us now.”
Militine shrugged. “I’m the wrong person to ask. I’ve never been much for church. I usually doze off during the Sunday sermon. I get tired of being told how bad I am.”
Abrianna hadn’t realized Militine’s feelings about church. “But without Jesus, we’re all bad. We have all ‘sinned and come short of the glory of God,’” she quoted from Romans. “And ‘the wages of sin is death.’”
“I know. I’ve heard it all before. Like a parent, God will discipline us.” Militine rubbed hard at a mark on the glass. “It’s just that I believe God is a harsh Father.”
“Harsh? Even loving parents have to discipline their children,” Abrianna said, feeling sad that Militine didn’t yet know the joy she had found in Jesus. “God wants us to put aside our sinful ways and seek Him. Then we can do good deeds for Him instead of wallowing in our sin.”
“But I do good deeds. I’m always helping one person or another. I’m never cross or angry when people do me wrong, and I always forgive them. That’s exactly what the preacher is always saying we need to do.”
“But your good deeds won’t save you from the fires of hell and eternal separation from God.” Abrianna reached out and touched Militine’s arm. “Only Jesus can do that. For certain God wants us to be forgiving, but—”
“Abrianna,” Aunt Selma called from the doorway. “Mr. Ackerman is here to see you. It’s not a proper visiting day, but he said it was important.”
She frowned. The last person in the world she wanted to see right now was Wade. He had hurt her feelings, and she wasn’t about to let him think the way he had treated her was acceptable.
“Please tell him I’m too busy and remind him again that it isn’t a visiting day. I have much too much work to stop now and share conversation and gossip with Mr. Ackerman.”
Aunt Selma didn’t question her reply, much to Abrianna’s relief. Once she was gone, Abrianna went back to work on the window. “He has some nerve showing up here to torment me.”
“So,” Militine said in a barely audible voice, “you don’t intend to . . . forgive him?”
The word hit Abrianna right between the eyes. Here she had just been sharing God’s directions for His children, including the need for forgiveness, yet she was unwilling to give the same to Wade for his transgressions.
“You have given me much to think on,” Abrianna replied, meeting Militine’s kind expression. “I shall have to ponder the matter for a time. Forgiveness will definitely be given, but I find that I must sort through my miseries in order to do so with a free heart.”
Militine smiled. “I would imagine getting your own heart in order will give you great peace of mind.”
Abrianna nodded. “Of course, you are right.”
19
Oh, Abrianna, it was just terrible,” Lenore sobbed. “I can hardly believe this is happening.”
Abrianna looked at her friend and felt great distress. The only problem was Lenore had been crying so much that these were the first actual words she’d understood.
“Drink your tea and then we can talk. I don’t know what’s happened, but I’m all ears and together we can figure it out. You know I’m good at figuring,” Abrianna said, refilling her own cup. Seldom had she ever seen Lenore in such a state, and it troubled her deeply to see it now.
“You know, Aunt Miriam says there’s nothing like a good cup of tea to ease your miseries. Aunt Selma, who, as you know is on the pudgy side, says that it’s not actually the tea but the shortbread cookies that accompany it. She’s convinced that sugar has a healing property when it comes to sorrow, although I haven’t really noticed it as such. Still, I really haven’t done much to prove it one way or another.” She replaced the tea cozy over the pot to keep it warm and looked back to her friend. Lenore was now sipping her tea, and Abrianna breathed a sigh of relief. Goodness, but life could be complicated.
When Lenore finally put the china cup back on its saucer, Abrianna smiled. “I know that doesn’t solve whatever is wrong, but I’m hopeful that it will allow you to speak about what’s got you so upset.”
Lenore nodded. “I’m sorry to be in such a state. I’ve hardly slept at all, and when I slipped out this morning, I didn’t even tell Cook where I was going. I simply ordered the carriage and came here.”
Abrianna smiled. “Just as you should when you are bearing overwhelming sorrow. Now, start from the beginning and tell me what’s wrong. We shall resolve the matter before you know it.”
“This has no solution. I can’t change who I am or how old I am.”
A frown came unbidden to Abrianna’s face. Here she was trying her best to keep a smile, but confusion over Lenore’s statement caused her great consternation. “What exactly are you saying? Who wants you to change?”
“Kolbein.” Lenore looked very much like she might again burst into tears, so Abrianna reached for the teapot.
“More tea?”
Lenore shook her head. “No. I promise you I am more composed now.”
Abrianna nodded. Apparently Aunt Miriam’s assessment of tea was correct. “So please tell me what has distressed you so. I’m afraid you have me positively beside myself in worry.”
“Kolbein thinks I’m too young to marry.”
The statement was delivered in a matter-of-fact manner, leaving Abrianna to wonder what the real trouble might be. Surely her age wasn’t the real problem. She looked to Lenore, waiting for more to follow. It didn’t.
Hoping her words didn’t sound callous, Abrianna shrugged. “To one man a person is too young. To another, too old. Who can understand the mind of a man? Aunt Selma is convinced they cannot form what she calls ‘reasonable living thought.’ By that she means they can do all manner of intellectual reasoning and such, but when it comes to day-to-day living, they are often . . . well, these are her words, not mine: ‘They are simpletons.’”
Lenore looked at her with a pained expression. “Kolbein is no simpleton, but he is . . . unreasonable. He thinks that just because I’m twenty, I am too young to know what my heart wants. He measures this by the fact that his sister is just nineteen. But honestly, Abrianna, there is a lot of growing up between nineteen and twenty. Not only that, but I’m soon to be twenty-one.”
“It’s true,” Abrianna said, nodding. “I changed my opinions and views considerably between last year and this. I suppose someone Kolbein’s age just can’t appreciate what we women go through.”
“I’m so afraid, Abrianna. What if I cannot convince him otherwise?”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t try.” Lenore looked at her as if she’d gone mad. Abrianna continued. “I only mean that perhaps you should isolate yourself from his company and give him time to reconsider. It’s been my experience with men—I only have Wade to go on—that they need time to evaluate their mistakes. It seems to take them longer to realize the error of their ways, but with Wade, absence always seems to help.”
Lenore nodded. “I suppose you’re right. If I do nothing to reach him, then he will have to come to me. It’s just that I cannot lose him, Abrianna. He is my heart and soul. My thoughts are centered around him these days, and I find I can scarce think about anything else.”
To Abrianna this sounded like some sort of madness, but she wasn’t going to suggest such a thing. Obviously, her friend was in pain, so it stood to reason that she might say things that made no sense.
“I suppose,” Lenore continued, “Kolbein believes me incapable of taking care of a household, a poor man’s household.” She grew thoughtful. “That’s it, Abrianna. He’s only worried because I’ve lived a life of ease and know very little about handling my own house. Goodness, I should have thought of this before.” She perked up considerably. “Kolbein is simply concerned that I can’t cook and clean for us. He mentioned his sister’s naïveté and no doubt worries that I would be the same.”
Abrianna had no idea if that was the real problem or not, but Lenore seemed at least partly recovered from her sorrows. “That’s easily resolved,” Abrianna said, realizing what needed to be done. “You must enroll in the school here. My aunts can teach you all you need to know.”
“Mother would never approve,” Lenore said, shaking her head. “Not if I were to enroll on a formal basis. Perhaps we could speak to Mrs. Madison and explain my dilemma. She might take pity on me and help us to figure another way.”
“I suppose it’s possible. Maybe she would allow you to simply come here every day and study with the other girls.” Abrianna had a painful but acceptable thought—acceptable if it would help Lenore. “If I tell her that I, too, will study alongside you, she would be most encouraged to give it a try. She’s always vexed that I manage to avoid her tutorage. I don’t believe it to be without merit, but I do dread it.” Abrianna touched her hands to her breast. “But for you, I would attempt most anything.”
Lenore smiled for the first time since her arrival. “You are a dear, dear friend, Abrianna. If your aunts would help to train me in secret, I’m sure I could make some excuse for being here every day. Perhaps I could tell Mother that I’m giving you instruction.” She frowned. “No, that won’t work. Mother would ask why the ladies themselves weren’t able to manage this.”
“What if you were simply honest with her? The discussion might be uncomfortable,” Abrianna said thou
ghtfully, “but the alternative might be even more so. You could explain to her that you will be twenty-one in August and that if you aren’t allowed to train in secret, then you will enroll formally in the autumn. Since Aunt Miriam posts the names of the new young ladies in the newspaper, your mother might be willing to forgo what she would see as humiliation in order to keep things quiet.”
Lenore nodded. “Abrianna, you are brilliant. And it wouldn’t be a lie. If Mother and Father won’t allow me to come here and train every day, I shall do exactly that.”
“Of course,” Abrianna said, fearing she’d gone too far, “you don’t want to dishonor them. The Bible says you must honor them that your days would be long. I really want you to have many years of life. I couldn’t bear to think of you dying young because I gave you bad advice.”
“Oh goodness, Abrianna, you do go on. Don’t you see? This would be a way of honoring them. By taking my courses in secret, they won’t feel shamed by their peers. It’s a perfect solution. I will train with your aunts—if they’ll have me, and Kolbein will realize I’m more than capable of becoming his wife.”
Abrianna hated that it was the perfect solution. She realized the sacrifice would force her to spend her days cooking and sewing rather than stealing out to seek aid for her friends. Maybe she could learn to sew well enough that she could make shirts for the old sailors. She frowned and shook her head. Maybe she could just learn to make them a handkerchief.
It wasn’t easy to convince her parents that afternoon, but Lenore knew they saw the reason in her desire. They seldom denied her, and given she was willing to protect their reputation, Lenore knew they would acquiesce.
“I never thought to have a daughter of mine involved in such an arrangement,” Mother said, looking a bit pale. “But if you are certain this is what you wish . . .”
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