A Heart Most Certain

by Melissa Jagears

  How might Roxanna’s life have been different if she’d known someone like Lydia would care about her predicament?

  “So as a senator’s wife, I was thinking I could encourage Sebastian’s colleagues to switch their focus from fining prostitutes to giving desperate women alternatives.”

  He swallowed and nodded. But her arm—which had felt so light and warm only seconds ago—suddenly felt like lead.

  “Do you think I’d have a chance at spurring the state into creating an organization to help unwed mothers?”

  He tried to focus on what she was saying, but the words “as a senator’s wife” kept replaying in his mind. “Uh . . . I think most politicians would say that need was being met by the counties’ poor farms.”

  “But that certainly is nowhere to raise a child. Surely we could do better. Something like a poor farm crossed with an orphanage.”

  “That sounds like an idea,” he rasped.

  And it was a good start. The kind of thinking he’d hoped for just weeks ago.

  Though he’d hoped to groom someone to help him around here.

  But of course, having someone who thought like him discussing these things with people of influence across the state might help his cause more. . . .

  He stopped at the bottom of her steps and forced himself to let go of her arm. “I think you’ll do a lot of good, Lydia.”

  She gave him a sheepish smile and shrugged. “Thank you.”

  What else was there to say that wouldn’t betray the illogical path his brain had taken minutes ago? He lifted his hand slightly. “Good night.”

  “Good night.” She turned up the stairs and disappeared inside.

  Squeezing the balustrade, he stared at her door far longer than necessary. It wasn’t her fault he’d allowed his emotions out of the padlocked sections of his heart.

  She’d do a lot of good through Sebastian. Might even make the man see the light.

  So hopefully granting her next wish would help her see the needs of a different group of people who were just as needy as those in the red-light district. If she’d champion them as well, maybe all this turmoil would be worth it.

  24

  The small group of women who’d shown up at the church on this extremely cold morning was quiet and grave as they sewed. A few minutes ago, Bernadette had walked in with her husband and asked for the group to forgive her for quitting, without a hint at the reason.

  Even Mrs. Little—never at a loss for criticism—sewed in silence after Bernadette left hand in hand with the pastor.

  So quiet was the basement, Lydia could hear her eyelids blinking.

  She’d known Bernadette was going to stop volunteering, but these ladies hadn’t. Perhaps some good news would help. Surely it would be all right to tell the women of Nicholas’s intention to bolster church funds, even if they had yet to meet with Pastor Wisely. “I know Mrs. Wisely’s leaving isn’t happy news, but we do have something to rejoice over.” She smiled at the ladies around the quilt. “Our needs for the quilt project should be fully funded by the end of the day.”

  Mrs. Little’s head popped up first, and she narrowed her eyes.

  Evelyn’s face brightened, probably ready to latch onto anything to draw attention away from her mother’s announcement. “So you finally got Mr. Lowe to cave?”

  Lydia bobbed her head. Her heart warmed at the thought of him. Her dreams the past few nights had been filled with him. And when she awoke each time . . . she’d let the dream play out in her imagination. She had never allowed herself to dream of a man as wealthy as Nicholas before. Even though Papa had said her pretty blue eyes could win over any man, she’d not bothered to believe him since her family and financial situation were much less attractive.

  But Nicholas didn’t seem to care what anyone thought about anything. If he took a fancy to a certain young lady . . .

  She shook her head. What was she thinking? She had to push away such thoughts. If she dreamed about it too much, all she did was invite disappointment. He might be attracted, but he was too honorable to act on any interest he may have as long as she was tied to Sebastian.

  But what if she no longer was?

  She huffed and poked her needle back into the cloth. How many times must she remind herself of how reality worked? Fantasizing about stirring up the male interest Nicholas had displayed would only cause heartbreak. There were just too many differences to make them compatible, like their social standing and the size of their bank accounts.

  Oh, if only half her life hadn’t been spent getting lost in the happily-ever-afters of women of humble means who’d found love with princes among men.

  She started another line of stitching. Time to return to what she knew could happen. Yesterday morning Mr. Black had informed her of today’s scheduled appointment.

  “Mr. Lowe agreed to make a donation to the church and plans to discuss which funds to put it into with Pastor Wisely. How much more is needed for the machines, Mrs. Little?”

  Sebastian’s mother sat in silence for a moment, but then dropped her needle and thread and scuttled over to the carved wooden box. “I’ve got twenty-three dollars and fifty cents. That should pay for one machine and some fabric to go along with what was donated. If we get at least ten more dollars, we could buy two machines, but fifteen would be better so we’d have plenty of fabric.” She rubbed her chin and looked at the ceiling before turning her eyes toward Lydia with . . . admiration, maybe? “How much are you getting from him?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but it isn’t a small amount.” Maybe it wasn’t wise to reveal too much to Mrs. Little. “I don’t think so anyway.”

  “Well, get as much as possible. We don’t need to limit ourselves to machines. We could buy material for some banners for Sebastian—for the slogans that fit the moral society’s purpose, of course. Maybe hold a rally of some sort, bring in a real on-fire preacher to confront The Line’s wickedness.”

  Lydia squirmed in her seat. “Mr. Lowe will want a say on what his donation is for, and I don’t know if—”

  “Those are just the first ideas off the top of my head, of course. But if you’ve wrangled something from him when we’ve never succeeded before, you can get more. He might not give again, so we should wring out what we can now.”

  Lydia shook her head. “I doubt—”

  “Fifty would be good, a hundred better. We could put the extra in the coffer and decide what to do with it later.”

  “I—”

  Evelyn squeezed Lydia’s hand. “I knew you could do it.”

  Mrs. Robinson clapped her hands. “We could buy new music for our serenades.”

  “Or more literature to hand out.” Mrs. Little smiled. “I saw some excellent tracts on the evils of staying open for business on the Sabbath.”

  “Or what about . . .”

  Lydia worked to keep the smile on her face. She’d definitely cheered the room, but Nicholas wouldn’t approve of half these ideas—she wasn’t even sure he’d agree to put the original thirty dollars she’d asked for in the moral society’s fund.

  She’d only intended to prod him to cover the sewing machines. But then, would it hurt to ask for a little more? These women did other good things, like hand out turkeys at Thanksgiving and evangelize at the town’s festivals.

  In addition to the sewing machines, she’d hoped he’d supply the children’s Sunday school fund so they could buy a set of Bibles and give a sizeable chunk to the building fund for the parsonage. But fifty dollars for the moral society wasn’t too much more than thirty.

  The ladies talked excitedly, their ideas growing into projects that would take hundreds of dollars, but Lydia held her tongue before she made things worse. She’d find out soon enough what she could get.

  A fast quarter of an hour raced by with the ladies shocked out of their gloom.

  “Would you like to have lunch with me at Reed’s?” While all the ladies were cleaning up, Evelyn wrapped a muffler around her neck and pulled on the homem
ade mittens Lydia had made her last Christmas.

  Christmas presents . . . Why hadn’t she thought of Christmas presents for the children at Nicholas’s? Had they ever received any?

  She was in the middle of knitting a sweater for herself—a large, thick sweater—but if she unraveled it, surely she’d have enough to make Pepper, Angel, and Robbie each a set of mittens.

  Lydia put her notions away in her basket. “I’m afraid I have other plans.” Or rather, not enough money. “Maybe I could have you over for lunch after our next meeting?”

  “I’ll plan on it.” Evelyn squeezed her shoulder. “And I’m so proud of you.”

  After Evelyn left with the others, Lydia made her way upstairs with a lilt in her step. Surely Nicholas would buy the children something, and with the mittens she hoped to make, they’d have a rather pleasant Christmas—maybe their first.

  Moving through the church’s silent hallways, the wood creaking loudly beneath her feet, she padded over to the entrance’s double doors. The only carriage outside was the shabby one they’d used to visit Queenie and Annie’s children. Why would he come to a meeting with the pastor in his disguised vehicle? Her rapid breath fogged up the pane.

  He wouldn’t.

  And yet, he would.

  She took a shaky breath. When Nicholas told her about his plans to bolster church funds with a donation, had he mentioned Pastor Wisely or Freewill Church by name?

  He isn’t planning to meet with Pastor Wisely at all! Please, God, no. What about the Bibles for the children’s class, the blankets for the poor, and the fixes for the parsonage? Don’t you want them taken care of?

  She pressed her hands against the sudden ache in her temples.

  I should have known better. If I’d have thought logically, instead of losing myself in romantic daydreams, I’d have realized he’d do the exact opposite of what I wanted.

  But please, please let me be wrong.

  But she was fairly certain she was wrong in another sense—wrong for having told those ladies Nicholas Lowe intended to help them in any shape or form.

  Trembling with the mixture of cold and hot coursing through her limbs, she shoved her arms into her coat sleeves, smashed her hat into place, and forced herself outside and into the frosty air.

  Mr. Parker jumped off his seat and pulled his hands from his pockets to open the door for her. “Good afternoon, Miss King.”

  So Nicholas wasn’t getting out, and she was getting in. She shuddered in her coat, rubbing her arms, which did no good in warding off the frigid temperature.

  She forced words to the driver past the lump in her throat. “I’m sorry I left you sitting out here so long in this weather.”

  “If the horses can stand it, so can I.” Mr. Parker smiled and handed her into an empty coach.

  Where was Nicholas so she could strangle him? Not that her hands were steady enough right now to be of much use.

  She pulled a blanket over her knees, huddled next to the window, and watched the church disappear, blinking back disappointed tears.

  What kind of lesson was Nicholas attempting to teach her today by thwarting her good intentions once again?

  She didn’t want him to try to teach her anything anymore! Maybe Freewill Church didn’t support all of the same things he did, but they weren’t financing criminals either.

  He was too stiff-necked for anybody’s good.

  The last few days, she’d let her imagination run free, despite all the warnings she’d given herself, secretly hoping he’d woo her away from Sebastian. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Why had she ever considered attaching herself to someone who didn’t trust her with the details? Who wouldn’t help her with the things she believed in?

  At least Sebastian had never led her to believe one thing and then handed her another. He had straightforwardness down to an art. He was predictable. Boring.

  She closed her eyes and let her body sway with the side-to-side movement of travel. But no matter how mad she tried to be at Nicholas for his high-handed ways, her heart still leapt toward the miniscule hope of capturing the love of a man with such passion for others, a man who sacrificed himself more than anyone she’d ever known. Someone who loved books as much as she did. Whose eyes looked at her as if he found her attractive rather than simply tolerable.

  What kind of woman was she to remain attached to a man she didn’t even like because she wasn’t certain she had a chance with one she did?

  The more she grew fond of the unpredictable Mr. Lowe, the more she disliked herself.

  25

  Nicholas nodded as he inspected the spot on the rise where Pastor Weaver planned to build a church. “Considering the watershed, I’d agree this would be the best spot.” The sticks marking off the future foundation made a rather small rectangle. “But I hope you’ll consider expanding the size.”

  The pastor’s angular face warmed with the possibility despite the frigid air. Good thing the man couldn’t see Lydia standing behind him. She mustered up a smile whenever the pastor turned around, but Nicholas felt the disappointment radiating from her.

  She’d expected him to give the entire donation—her third wish—to their church, but he’d already set up this meeting with Pastor Weaver a month ago.

  This time, he’d explained why he’d chosen to fulfill her wish this way beforehand. During the long ride into Oklahoma, he’d described the Indian mission and how badly they needed funding. Pastor Weaver did not want to take money from the government—which would dictate how he ran his mission.

  She’d been quiet as he’d explained and had nodded in agreement occasionally.

  Hadn’t she?

  Pastor Weaver held his hands up in front of him as if in prayer. “I appreciate this, Mr. Lowe, more than you know. My mind insisted this building was too much to attempt, but I felt a peace and started with faith. And how quickly He provided.” He looked up at the open sky, his face awash in gray afternoon light. “I am humbled. I shall never again doubt that the Lord can do miracles for my people.”

  Nicholas smiled at the man’s gratefulness. But Lydia hadn’t offered a single opinion during their discussion of the mission’s needs. “Do you see anything we’ve overlooked, Miss King?”

  She tore her gaze off the dirt. “I think it would be more appropriate to ask Pastor Weaver if you forgot anything.”

  The man’s dark hair flopped as he shook his head vehemently. “I wouldn’t question someone who has given me more than I deserve. He’s met the needs I’d hoped for and more.”

  She colored a little and nodded.

  “If you think of anything else I can help with, let me know.” Nicholas stole a glance at Lydia. Her gloomy stance only made him rub his forehead to ease the pain building between his eyes. He’d been certain since the day at the library that she’d be disappointed, but he’d expected her to bounce back toward cheerfulness like she had before.

  And he’d talked to her about it this time. Isn’t that what she’d asked for when they’d argued in the red-light district?

  Though the ride back to Kansas would likely be awkward, he was ready to leave Oklahoma behind. “I’ve given you enough to get started, and in a few weeks, I’ll have my men bring down enough lumber for you to double the size of your building. If you need anything else before I return in March, write my secretary, Mr. Black.”

  Pastor Weaver stole his hand and shook it vigorously. “Bless you.” He turned to Lydia, snapped up her hand, and kissed it. “Bless you both.”

  She gave him a slight nod.

  “We’d best head back so Miss King can reach home before dark.” He laced her limp arm through his while they said their farewells, then walked her toward the coach.

  “I’m sorry you’re upset,” he said once they walked out of earshot.

  She sighed. “No, you’re not. Not really.”

  He hesitated. She pulled away.

  “It’s just—” She cut herself off with a frustrated wave of her hand. “I thought th
at you . . . perhaps thought well of me. But to know you really don’t . . . that you would . . .” She huffed. “I thought I was beginning to like you more, that I . . . Well, you have plenty of good qualities I admire, but you insist on slapping me in the face with them. Sometimes I can’t decide whether I hate you or . . .” She took off.

  “Wait.”

  “Why?” She skirted a puddle, putting distance between them. “You don’t even care what I think.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  She stopped to scowl at him. “You assumed I was a hypocrite before you bothered to learn anything about me. Do you realize you treat everyone in our church that way?” She took off again.

  He charged after her. “You can’t deny there are hypocrites in our church. If you need me to name a few—”

  “No.” She held up her hand. “I know plenty. Papa refuses to attend church because of them. Several treat us poorly because we can’t afford to return their dinner invitations, and those who know that my father drinks, that he . . .” She huffed again. “But what about the Wiselys? They used to bring us lunch when Papa’s earnings barely fed us twice a day. And the Renfroes have given me their girls’ outgrown dresses since I was six.” She spread out her pretty patterned black-and-white skirt, then gestured toward a hint of purple satin popping out of her nicely tailored coat’s sleeves. “Do you think my parents can afford these clothes?”

  He’d given little thought to her dresses, other than noticing that they looked nice on her. Though he had noticed one or two of her dresses had fuller sleeves than the current fashion dictated, he’d only thought her too practical to discard decent dresses just to keep up with the times. However, hand-me-downs would be another explanation for the puffy sleeves.

  “The Renfroes even buy me new fabric every Christmas so I can make myself one gown like all the other girls’.” She dropped her skirts, hiding her scuffed boots from view again. “But does Papa use the Wiselys and the Renfroes as excuses to stay in church? No.” She took off again. “So if a whole lot of nice people can’t keep you in church, then you can’t use a whole lot of bad people to keep you out.”