“Papa—”
He hushed her, not unkindly. “All I can say is I hope you won’t give me more reasons to regret the fact that I allowed you to go.”
She turned to him, struggling to remain calm. “Papa, a very thoughtful gentleman walked me safely to the mill. I should think you would be grateful.”
He reined the horses in and stopped the wagon in front of the house. Taking her hand briefly, he gave it an affectionate squeeze. “Go help your mama with supper. Tell her I’ll be in shortly.”
Stella managed a smile and jumped down from the wagon, dragging her books and bag off the bench behind her. She reached for the gate to the side yard, but before she could unfasten the latch, the back door flew open and her little sister raced into the yard.
“Stella’s home! Stella’s home!” Helen sang out merrily to no one in particular.
“Hi, there, Shortcake,” Stella called, using Papa’s nickname for the petite girl.
“We’re having roast chicken for supper. Mama needs your help mashing the potatoes.”
“I just got home, Helen. Give me a minute, will you?” She cringed inwardly. She hadn’t meant to snap like that. It wasn’t Helen’s fault that Papa was so bullheaded.
“I’m just telling you what Mama said,” the little girl pouted. “Was school hard today?”
“A little. How about your day? Did Miss Wickham like your drawing?” Helen frowned. “She didn’t get to see it. Timmy Hardtner tore it up before I got a chance to show it to Teacher.”
“Why, that little—”
“Don’t tell Papa,” Helen breathed, her eyes wide. “He’ll just make trouble. Timmy was only teasing.”
Stella could scarcely suppress her laughter. Timmy must have fallen hard for Helen. As dark as Stella was fair, Helen was already a beauty. But the poor girl was barely eight years old, and already she was wise to Papa’s fatherly sanctions against the masculine gender.
Stella put an arm around Helen and turned her toward the house. “I won’t say anything. I promise. But you’ll have to learn to stand up to Timmy. He shouldn’t have torn your picture, even if he was teasing. That’s just plain mean. Such a nice drawing—wasted!”
Helen smiled sheepishly, and love for her little sister welled up in Stella’s heart.
“Come on, Shortcake,” she said. “Let’s go help Mama.”
Thursday morning Stella had a full day of classes, but as she sat through her world history lesson and worked the problems in her mathematics course, she realized that she was merely biding her time until her tutoring session with James that afternoon. She had been on pins and needles since Tuesday night, terrified that Papa might forbid her to walk with James again. Fortunately, her father hadn’t said another word on the subject of James Collingwood, and Stella fervently hoped James might offer to walk with her again after today’s session.
Finally four o’clock approached, and Stella hurried across campus to the library. This time she had no trouble locating the study hall where they’d agreed to meet. But even though she arrived several minutes early, James was waiting for her when she opened the door.
“Am I late again?” She sighed.
“Not at all,” he said. “Right on time, in fact. I finished early in Dr. Whitestone’s office and thought I could find a few moments of solitude here.” He held up the book he’d been reading. “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” he explained, though Stella could easily read the embossed title on the book’s cover for herself. “A fascinating novel. I hadn’t read it before, but when I heard that President Lincoln had credited the author for starting the war, I decided I’d better see what kind of writing this was.”
“And is Harriet Beecher Stowe a warmonger, in your opinion?” There had been a discussion of the book in one of her classes, though she hadn’t read it herself. Papa and Mama didn’t put much stock in reading works of fiction.
“Oh, no,” James said. “I don’t think that’s what the president meant. To the contrary, I think his comment was a tribute to the author’s skill with words. She managed to stir up some powerful emotions with her fiction.”
For the next twenty minutes, she listened intently while James expounded on his impressions of Mrs. Stowe’s novel. Stella was much relieved at the confirmation that James was a strong abolitionist. She had assumed so, given his friendship with Dr. Whitestone, who was a well-known supporter of the fight against slavery. But still, seeing this strong yet compassionate side of James’s character only made Stella like him more.
Finally James gave her a guilty grin. “I’ve rattled on long enough. We’d best get on with the lesson.”
As Stella opened her notebook and readied her fountain pen, he glanced at his pocket watch and took in a sharp breath. “Stella, I’ve cheated you of nearly half your allotted time. I am sorry. I promise to make it up to you. Perhaps you could come ten or fifteen minutes early for the next two sessions?”
“Certainly,” she agreed. She looked forward with pleasure to any extra time with him.
They set about diagramming sentences, but each sentence James dictated seemed to remind one of them of a story, and when the clock in the library’s entry chimed five o’clock, they were once again far off the subject, laughing and chatting about every topic except English grammar.
“I’m ashamed of myself,” James told her, as they gathered their belongings and walked through the library stacks to the wide front doors. “I’ve wasted your time and your father’s money.”
“Please, James. Don’t think anything of it. I did my share of the talking, too. Besides, I enjoyed every minute of our time together.” Suddenly she felt rather shy with him. She hadn’t meant to wear her feelings quite so obviously on her sleeve. “It was certainly more interesting than those silly grammar problems,” she stammered.
“I’m afraid you’ll feel differently when you fail your exam,” he said solemnly.
“I’ll work extra hard next time,” she promised.
They reached the front doors and, as Stella had hoped, James issued an invitation.
“If you don’t mind waiting while I stop by Dr. Whitestone’s office to pick up some papers he asked me to mark, I’d be honored to walk you to the mill again.”
“Why, thank you. I’d like that.”
They stepped outside and were met by a blast of wintry air. “I believe the temperature has dropped by ten degrees,” James said, perusing the sky. “I’m afraid our Indian summer has come to an end.”
Stella shivered and pulled her wrap more tightly around her shoulders. She took the arm James offered, and they headed toward the building that housed the English department.
Arthur Whitestone was just locking up when they came down the main corridor of Voorhaven Hall. “Ah, James. There you are.” He looked at Stella, an unspoken question in the tight knit of his bushy, snow-white brows. “Good day, Miss Bradford.”
“Hello, Dr. Whitestone. We’ve just finished a tutoring session,” she offered, knowing that her father would likely hear about her showing up at the office on James’s arm. “James—um, Mr. Collingwood is going to escort me to the mill.”
“I see,” the professor said.
Stella imagined she saw a knowing glimmer in the older man’s eye. “Well, please give your father my greetings. It’s been some time since we took tea together.”
“I will tell him.”
Dr. Whitestone disappeared into his office and came back with a thick sheaf of papers for his assistant. James secured them in the small valise he carried, and he and Stella waved to the professor and started across campus.
“I still feel awful about taking up all your time with my blather.”
“Please, James.” She gave him her sweetest smile. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“Oh, but see there, you’ve just proven me right.” She raised an eyebrow in question.
“It’s apparent that I have much for which to be sorry,” he said pointedly.
She immediately picked up on the words h
e’d emphasized and put a hand to her forehead in mock distress. “Oh, I’ve trampled the English language once again, haven’t I?”
He nodded, laughing. “Don’t despair, Miss Bradford.” He bent his head near hers, and his voice took on a conspiratorial tenor. “In truth, unless you are giving a dissertation before the faculty of the academy, you can often get away with in speech what would be inexcusable in print.”
“That is good to know. Otherwise I wouldn’t dare speak another word in your presence for fear of making a grammatical fool of myself.”
He laughed again. James Collingwood was obviously easily entertained. She was glad, because she loved hearing his easy laughter, loved even more that she was the cause of it.
She barely noticed the chill in the air as they walked along, joking and talking together. As they neared the mill, Stella opened her mouth to insist again that James need not walk her all the way to the door, but before she could get a word out, he stopped abruptly in the street and turned to her. “Do you have classes tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“What if we meet again tomorrow afternoon at the library so I can make up the time I wasted? You wouldn’t be charged for the extra session, of course,” he added quickly.
She smiled to herself at his transparent excuse to spend time with her again, but she wasn’t about to miss the opportunity. “I was going to be studying at the library anyway,” she told him, “until Papa gets done at the mill. If you’re certain you don’t mind, that would be very nice.”
She looked up to see Papa’s team and wagon appear from behind the mill’s warehouse. Stella could tell by her father’s alert posture at the reins that he had been watching for her. When Papa spotted her with James, he nudged the horses forward and drove across the mill yard to meet them.
From his perch high up on the wagon seat, Papa tipped his hat politely in James’s direction.
James returned the courtesy. “Good day, Sir.”
“Papa, this is James Collingwood, the tutor I told you about. James, this is my father, Marcus Bradford.”
“Pleasure meeting you, Mr. Bradford,” James said.
“Likewise,” Papa responded. He turned his gaze on Stella, and she recognized the tight wariness in his voice when he said, “We’d best be on our way, Stella. It looks like there might be a winter storm brewing, and we don’t want to worry your mother.”
Stella turned to her escort. “Thank you for walking me, James. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
James helped her into the wagon, and as they drove off, she gave a little wave, hoping that he hadn’t noticed Papa’s rudeness.
When the horses had trotted out of James’s hearing, Papa leveled a one-word accusation at her. “James?”
Not understanding at first, she started to explain. “Yes, Papa. It’s James Collingwood.”
“And since when are students at St. Bartholomew’s on a first-name basis with their professors?”
“Papa, I told you, he’s not a professor. He’s an assistant. He fills in teaching for Dr. Whitestone once in a while is all.”
“He is your tutor, Stella, and therefore your superior. I don’t think it’s proper for you to be on a first-name basis with the man.”
“He asked me to call him James, Papa. It would have been rude to ignore his request.”
“Well, I don’t like it. And what’s this business about tomorrow? Perhaps I should speak to him.”
“Papa, no! James—Mr. Collingwood didn’t do anything wrong. Please, Papa.”
They bumped along the country road in silence, Stella’s mind churning. She would be mortified if Papa said anything to James. Suddenly she remembered her exchange with Dr. Whitestone.
“By the way, Papa,” she started, trying to keep her tone casual. “I spoke with Dr. Whitestone this afternoon, and he said to tell you ‘hello.’ He mentioned that it’s been some time since the two of you visited.”
Papa thought for a moment. “Yes, it has been awhile. I suppose I should remedy that. Perhaps I’ll pay Arthur a visit tomorrow.”
Stella cringed. She knew exactly why Papa was suddenly so eager to visit with his old friend. Yet the more she thought about it, the more optimistic she grew. Dr. Whitestone knew James well. Perhaps her professor could serve as a liaison between James and her father. Perhaps he could put Papa’s mind at ease about James. If anyone might be able to persuade Papa that there was no harm in her and James’s friendship, it would be Arthur Whitestone.
Chapter 4
The encounter with Stella’s father at the mill ate at James like a dog gnawing away at a dry bone. At dinner, over Sylvia’s succulent roast beef, he barely said a word. Of course with Mrs. Bellingham at the table, one did not need to worry about a lack of conversation. The elderly widow expounded at length on every subject under the sun. Though he could usually tolerate the woman’s well-intentioned lectures, tonight her high-pitched voice gave him a headache. He excused himself to his room as soon as he could politely do so.
Then when he should have been marking students’ papers, he sat at the cramped desk in the tiny sitting room off his bedchamber and replayed the brusque meeting with Stella’s father. He had gotten the distinct impression that Marcus Bradford was not at all happy about seeing James with his daughter. Maybe it wasn’t personal. Perhaps Mr. Bradford was simply one of those overprotective fathers who never wanted to turn their daughters over to any man. But he worried that it was more than that. He knew that Dr. Whitestone and Marcus Bradford were friends. Was it possible that Dr. Whitestone had told Stella’s father about him? And if so, was Marcus Bradford the kind of man who refused to forgive a man his past?
Guilt poured over James. It was one thing to mentally berate the man for having a judgmental spirit. But when Stella didn’t know how much there was to forgive, he couldn’t very well credit her for having a generous, forgiving spirit.
James knew that he had long ago been forgiven by the only One who mattered. Nevertheless, it wasn’t fair to court a woman the way he wanted to court Stella Bradford without telling her the whole story. They could never have an honest friendship until she knew the truth about him and had an opportunity to decide for herself whether she could live with the ugly history that would always be a part of who he was.
He adjusted the wick on the kerosene lamp beside him and forced his attention to the compositions spread in front of him. If he didn’t get to work, he would be up past midnight reading mostly dreadful freshman essays.
But before he set to work, he paused to bow his head and offer his worries to heaven. When he lifted his head, the flame in the lamp flickered, and a tender ember of peace glowed within his heart as well.
The Indian summer returned with surprising strength, and for a month and a half of Tuesdays and Thursdays, Stella Bradford spent her afternoons in Robinson Library with a handsome and fascinating tutor who was fast becoming her dearest friend and confidant.
James had taken to walking Stella to the mill each evening, even when he sometimes had to turn around and return to the academy for a meeting or to teach a late class. Papa had not said another word to her about James Collingwood. On the rare occasions when the two men encountered each other in front of the mill, Papa treated James with polite indifference. Stella was happy to leave well enough alone and was merely content that, for once, her father was not interfering.
In the early hours of a late November morning, Old Man Winter finally made his first appearance, dumping half a foot of snow on Clairemore and the surrounding area.
When the Bradford sisters awoke at dawn and discovered the blanket of white outside the farmhouse, young Helen danced around the cozy kitchen in delight. But Stella paced the hallway from front door to back a dozen times, wishing Papa would come in and tell her his decision about going into town. He had gone out to do the morning chores and to hitch the horses to the sleigh; but before he’d left the house, he had warned Stella that he doubted there would be classes at the academy after such a storm.
Stella looked suspiciously at her mother and detected a twinkle in the soft brown eyes. Though Stella usually confided in her mother, she hadn’t yet dared to voice her growing feelings for James Collingwood.
She smiled coyly. “I don’t know what you are talking about, Mama.”
“Stella, Stella, what have we taught you about telling lies?” Mama teased.
Stella rushed to her mother’s side and put an arm around the soft shoulder. “Oh, Mama. You have to make Papa let me go!”
Mama looked at her intently. “What is his name, Child? As if I couldn’t guess, since I’ve heard the words of a certain handsome tutor quoted a dozen times over the past weeks.”
Stella knew her smile betrayed her feelings. “Yes, it’s James, Mama. Papa met him, you know—at the mill. Oh, Mama, he’s wonderful. Did Papa tell you?”
“That James is wonderful?” She shook her head. “Hardly.”
Stella smiled at her mother’s attempt at a joke, and her heart overflowed with affection for this woman who had always been a buffer between a stubborn father and an equally stubborn daughter. “You have to make him understand, Mama,” she begged again. “I’m supposed to meet James in the library this afternoon.”
“But I thought your sessions with your tutor were on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
Stella blushed. “That’s right. But … well, sometimes we meet there just to visit.”
Mama walked to the dining-room window and pulled back a corner of the heavy drapes. “My sweet, silly girl, we are in the middle of a frightful storm. If you don’t show up, I’m sure your James will understand that the weather detained you. And if he lets a little snowstorm change his mind about the prettiest girl in Clairemore County, then he wasn’t worth pining over anyway,” Mama declared.
Tracie Peterson, Tracey V. Bateman, Pamela Griffin, JoAnn A. Grote Page 42