Love Finds You in Bethlehem, New Hampshire

by Lauralee Bliss

  At that moment, two men walking down the boardwalk slowed their pace as they approached her. They swept their tall hats from their heads and bowed. Sara performed a slight curtsy, which spawned grins on their faces.

  “Excuse me, madam,” said one of the men, “but surely I saw you at the Maplewood dining room this morning. Didn’t I?”

  Sara paused, unsure of what to say. “I’m sorry; you’ve mistaken me for another. I’m actually the guest of Bethlehem’s most famous painter.”

  The two men looked at each other. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of him.”

  “Mr. Thomas Haskins. Oh, you would love his paintings. They depict the fine land here and the people, too.”

  “Interesting. I would very much like to meet him and see his work. Where can I find him?”

  “On Congress Street. The white house with black shutters and a large porch.”

  “Excellent. Thank you. A good day to you.”

  The men moved off, and only then did Sara realize what she’d done. She’d heaped praise upon Tom. She’d encouraged others to buy his work. She truly cared about him. If only he would return the favor by standing with her, offering his support, his encouragement, and sharing in his work. After all, wasn’t that why he sent out the ad? Wasn’t he responsible for the success of this venture? That is, if he desired it to be successful. But at this moment, Sara wanted it to succeed. She was determined to have it succeed. She would have Tom Haskins fall in love with her. And they would be married.

  Sara turned and made her way back down Main Street. Remembering the man’s comment about the Maplewood Hotel, Sara decided she must see it for herself. She’d heard what a grand place it was, the largest hotel in Bethlehem. Claire talked of the wealthy people who stayed there during the summer.

  She took her time on the journey, savoring the fine air and the grand homes. How simple yet elegant were the homes here compared to the drab buildings in the city. She wished Mama were alive to see this place. Maybe if they had come to this town, away from the dust and air of the city, Mama would have never taken ill. She would have survived to see Sara wed a fine man like Tom and raise a family.

  Sara tried not to dwell on such things. If anything, Mama would be glad to know she was away from the city, dressed in fine garments, learning to read and write, and experiencing all that a lady should. She would be thankful to God for Sara’s blessings. And Sara should be grateful for this time, too, even if things weren’t going exactly as planned. She must thank Claire and Tom for everything…and tell Tom of the fine men she had met and how they wanted to buy his paintings. Then there would be a look of adoration across his face. He would take her in his arms to give her his own message of gratefulness—a loving kiss.

  The grand spectacle of the famous Maplewood Hotel soon came into view. Sara stood at a distance, staring for a lengthy time at the unique construction. The long wings with many windows and spiral towers that flanked the ends made the building appear as if it were a palace for royalty. How glorious it would be to have a cup of tea in such surroundings. Perhaps a fine gentleman might ask to sit with her or even engage her in conversation. She felt in her pocket for a few coins, hoping she had enough to splurge on such luxury.

  Sara walked toward the entrance of the magnificent building when she noticed a familiar figure in the distance. She stopped short. The tall figure wore a familiar brown hat and carried a wide leather case, like an artist would use to protect a painting. It must be Tom! She quickened her pace, drawing up the courage to ask if he cared to have a cup of tea in the dining room, when a woman suddenly intercepted him on the walkway. Sara ducked behind a nearby tree to listen.

  “Oh, Thomas, I’m so glad I ran into you! Look what I have for you.”

  Sara watched as the woman presented him with a large book. “Just as I told you, it has descriptions of wonderful Italian painters.”

  Tom’s joy was evident in his wide grin. “This is magnificent, Annabelle. Where did you find it?”

  “Lawrence had it in his library, and I said I would bring it to you. Oh, and I have more news. Delightful news, really. I just received a telegram. Father said that he would help pay for a trip to Italy! You said how much you wanted to go. Isn’t that simply marvelous?”

  Sara tensed. Cold rippled through her. What trip is she talking about?

  “Annabelle…” Tom hesitated. “I don’t know if…”

  “Oh, my father will accompany us, of course. I wouldn’t dare presume that we go without a chaperone. That is, unless…” She took hold of his hand. He looked as if he might drop his leather case. “If you would consider making it a wedding trip instead,” Annabelle finished. She smiled widely.

  Sara gasped and quickly covered her mouth. Tears sprang to her eyes. She whirled and hurried off into a meadow of brown grass. “Oh, dear Lord, I’ve made such a fool of myself. All this time…I thought he might…” She tripped along, nearly falling as withered blades scratched her and snared her fine dress. Tom is supposed to marry me. Now it will never happen. Why did I ever come to this place? To be humiliated? Or so Claire and Tom could have the praise of transforming a tramp into a lady? Then put me on display and give themselves an award for their work.

  Sara knew the end of this game. Annabelle had made it clear. Tom never intended to marry her, the waif. Then why should she remain? I will leave, she decided. I’m not meant to be here or to marry Tom. Not now, not ever.

  Sara gathered her skirt and hurried toward the house. She would tell Claire and Tom her decision at dinner tonight, pack what meager belongings she had, and find work at one of the hotels. When she had enough money, she would return to where she belonged, to the people who loved her for who she was. And never again would she set foot in a New England town or answer any man’s ad for a bride.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tom stood there speechless, as he often found himself these days. Running his hand across the book that Annabelle had given him, he tried to understand what this meant. Her father was willing to pay for a trip to Italy…but more shockingly, she was speaking marriage. And he hardly knew her.

  “Uh…Miss Loving…,” he began.

  “Annabelle,” she corrected, the smile remaining as if she knew she had gained an advantage by this surprise announcement. “This is what you want, isn’t it? Your heart’s desire?”

  He looked down at the book. He should be ecstatic that someone would think to help finance a trip to see the works of the famous Italian painters. But at the same moment, he felt he was offering up his soul on a marriage altar in exchange. He would be beholden to Annabelle and her family. Her father would look to him in anticipation of a marital arrangement. It was too much to consider right now. “Thank you for the loan of the book. As for the trip, I–I’ll have to think about it.”

  “What is there to consider? My father is very intrigued by your work. I shipped home the painting I bought from you at the parade. He was very impressed and says you have wonderful talent. He is more than happy to show you Italy. Thomas, this is an opportunity of a lifetime!”

  How well he knew it. Visiting Italy would be a dream come true. But was this also God’s opportunity, or one from a determined woman seeking companionship no matter the cost? He gazed into the meadow beyond and, for an instant, thought he saw someone running. The figure quickly disappeared over a small knoll. He returned his attention to Annabelle’s expectant face. “Please offer your father my thanks for his generous offer. But I need time to consider it.”

  “Well, don’t take too long. There are arrangements to be made. And we must book passage on the ship. Now I have to go. I’m meeting several friends for tea at the Maplewood. I’d have you join us, Thomas, but it’s women, after all, and you’d be bored with all the chatter.”

  “I need to be going, too. Thank you again for the book.”

  Annabelle waited, her face tilted upward as if expecting a reward for all this. A small kiss on the cheek wouldn’t harm anything, especially since she had brought
him the book. He began to oblige when suddenly she jerked her head, and their lips met instead. He stepped back, flustered. Her cheeks flushed with pleasure, and a smile once more lit up her face. “I’ll see you soon.”

  He watched her walk in dignified fashion toward the Maplewood Hotel. She was beautiful indeed, and she’d offered a more wondrous gift than he could have ever imagined. But how did he dare accept it? A part of him longed to see the sights of Rome and Florence, the works of the Venetians, the grand cathedrals and domes…. What should I do? Is this a door opening for me? Am I supposed to walk through it? He considered it as he made his way toward town. If Lawrence found out he’d accepted Annabelle’s offer and her hand, the man would sing like a lark up and down the streets of Bethlehem. Mr. Astor would agree to the arrangement with such a fine lady. Claire would wonder what he had done….

  And then there was Sara. What about Sara McGee?

  He paused. Sara wasn’t necessarily the answer to his heart even if she did respond to the ad. She was not like Annabelle Loving or the other ladies who gathered on the porticos of the grand hotels. She was someone Claire had taken under her wing. She was more like a sister living under his roof, and he had treated her as such these many weeks.

  But the one who gave him the book was an accomplished and beautiful woman who understood the desires of his heart. And she wanted him.

  He hurried toward home, the book in one hand and his leather portfolio in the other. As he did, he began making plans. He would finish his contract for the paintings in time for the holiday season. He would take out the large family trunk and polish it up. It would do nicely for the long voyage to Italy. He would need to consider other things, as well. When would be the appropriate time to ask for Annabelle’s hand? Should they make the trip to Italy a wedding tour or simply travel with her father as a chaperone? There was so much to consider.

  Tom slowed his pace when he neared his home. Claire stood on the porch shaking a small throw rug in the air. Clouds of dust floated into the late November afternoon. She then placed the rug on the porch floor, straightened, and saw him. She folded her arms across her chest as if she knew what had transpired at the Maplewood. But that was impossible. Still, he tucked the book behind the leather case before he approached.

  “How was your day?” he asked, despite the strange look she gave.

  “Rather, I should be asking how yours was.”

  “It went well. I finished another painting for Mr. Astor.”

  Claire pointed to the porch rockers. Tom opened his mouth, ready to tell her that he had too many things to do, one of which was looking over the fine book Annabelle had given him. Instead, he took a seat and stared off in the distance at nothing in particular.

  “I’m sure you’re unaware that Sara has been crying for over an hour.”

  He looked back at her in surprise. “Whatever for?”

  “Maybe you should tell me. Something about a marriage?”

  He stared in disbelief. “I–I’m not sure I understand.”

  “She said you are making plans to marry Annabelle Loving.”

  “I don’t understand. How did she hear about that?”

  “Maybe in front of the Maplewood Hotel earlier today? After Miss Loving gave you some gift.”

  Heat spread through his face and singed his neck. “I don’t understand how she would know about this. She was there, listening?”

  “What does it matter? Is it true?”

  “Miss Loving knows my interest in Italian painting and simply brought me a book from Lawrence’s library.”

  “Which ended with some kind of marriage proposal. Tom, how could you do this in front of Sara?”

  He sat up in vexation. “I didn’t know she was eavesdropping. What was she doing listening to other people’s conversations? And what of it, anyway? I never pledged myself to marry Sara just because she answered the ad. Or rather, her nanny answered the ad for her.”

  “Mrs. Whitaker is not her nanny, just a kind woman who took Sara under her wing when she had no one else.”

  “I made no pledge of intent. Nor did I make a pledge to Miss Loving…though I’m very grateful she gave me this book and offered me the trip.”

  Claire’s eyes widened. “Trip! What trip?”

  His face grew even warmer, as if it were a kettle of soup heating on the cookstove. “Her father offered to pay for a trip to Italy. He admires my paintings and wanted to help. I thought it was a fine and thoughtful gesture.”

  Claire flew to her feet. “Tom, how could you be so insensitive? You agreed to have Sara come here on the presumption…”

  “There is no…”

  “…on the presumption,” she said louder, “that you would allow her time to embrace the customs of a lady and see if she is the woman you’re to marry. But, instead, all you’ve done is ignore her and throw yourself at Miss Loving’s feet—and let that raven pluck at your heart.”

  Tom opened his mouth to speak, but Claire rushed on.

  “Maybe you’re too busy to notice these days, but Sara has worked hard to please you and everyone else in this town. She has done everything society requires. Dressed correctly. Worked on manners. Even reading and writing. And this is how you reward her.”

  “I do not reward with a ring, sister. It’s wrong to place that kind of burden on me.” He took to his feet and walked down the stairs.

  “Then why did you invite her to stay with us, Tom, if you never had any intention of marrying her?”

  “I wanted to help her. Is that so wrong? Why am I being condemned for it? Or, rather, put into a corner.” He paced about the front lawn, scuffing up the browning grass.

  “Then you need to be honest and tell her the truth. And stop giving her hope when there is no hope.” The door shut before him.

  Tom paused. Was hope for Sara now gone? He had all but sealed it with his words. He looked across the wide field that eventually ended at the Maplewood’s doorstep. He wanted to say yes to Annabelle’s request. To set his feet on a determined path and not a place in the wilderness. But was he certain the path was meant for Annabelle? Had he allowed Annabelle to bewitch him instead of being patient and waiting to see what the Lord willed for the future? Especially when another young woman entertained hope for a future covenant?

  Please, God, he prayed, make my path known. Not my will, but Yours be done.

  The dinner hour arrived, forcing Tom to enter the house and reconcile what had occurred. He prayed for calm and for the right words to say in this situation. An idea for a painting came to mind at that moment, of a deer caught in the throes of a raging wildfire after taking a wrong turn down a woodland path. Its only course of action to avoid being burned was taking a flying leap off a cliff into a lake of water below. Heading into the dining room, Tom decided he must paint such a picture. It was all too telling of what he felt like at that moment.

  He waited, expecting Sara to come out with a dish she had prepared, as she did every night. He heard a rustle behind him. He turned and saw a lady bedecked in a splendid dress, her hair neatly piled on her head, with curly ringlets gracing each cheek. She held her back stiffly, moving with grace, to a chair opposite his.

  “Can I help you, Claire?” she asked.

  “No, thank you, Sara. I have it.”

  Tom stared. This woman was Sara McGee? Why had he not noticed the changes before now? Her gaze met his then, and in those blue eyes he saw fire. Her lips tensed, and she looked away. She swiped up her napkin, unfolding it to place in her lap.

  “Would you like to say the blessing, Tom?” Claire asked.

  Tom no more wanted to say the blessing than if he were some heathen. But he bent his head and offered a quick prayer of thanks for the food and the company. He wanted to say more but didn’t. May God soon unleash his spiritual man from these burdens of the heart so he might deliver a prayer of thanksgiving and care, one that would bring peace and, most of all, direction.

  Sara finished dishing up a modest portion of the chick
en soup before handing the ladle to Tom. For a mere moment their fingers brushed as they exchanged the spoon. She jerked her hand away as if he were on fire. The response pained him. He ladled out a helping anyway, determined to enjoy the meal.

  Silence prevailed as they each ate their soup. Claire then left the table to bring out the next course while Tom and Sara sat opposite each other, staring at nothing in particular. He wished he could tell her how lovely she looked, or that he was glad they could be of help in providing for her needs. But the words remained locked inside.

  Claire arrived with a platter of pot roast surrounded by vegetables. They each spooned servings onto their plates. Again the silence ensued, except for the ticking of the grandfather clock.

  “So when do you leave, Mr. Haskins?” Sara asked.

  The question came so suddenly, it jarred him. “What?”

  “I asked when you plan to leave on your trip.”

  He slowly wiped his mouth on a napkin. “I have no plans to leave on a trip.”

  “I suppose the marriage must come first.” Sara buttered a slice of bread. “Surely Europe would make a fine wedding tour.”

  Claire stared first at Sara then at Tom. She seemed uncertain as to what to say.

  “I have no plans for that, either,” Tom added. “And I’m sorry that somehow you overheard what was meant to be a private discussion.”