An Unlikely Love

by Dorothy Clark

  “Well, I hoped!”

  “Miss Bradley! Good afternoon, Miss Bradley! Is your trunk ready to be carried down?”

  She spun about at the call and hurried to throw back the tent flap. “Yes, it is. That’s it over there. It’s to go on the Colonel Phillips, bound for the train station at Mayville.” Her stomach flopped. Her Chautauqua experience truly was coming to an end.

  “I’ll see to it, miss.” The man hefted the Saratoga to his shoulder and carried it out the opening.

  “Well...” She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat and lifted the black wool wrap she would wear on the train off their tree root coatrack. The night air was getting cooler.

  Clarice put two new pencils in her writing box, latched it and walked toward her. “I have what I came for. Let’s walk down to the Goodbye Teachers Forum together.”

  * * *

  The sun was sliding toward the hilltop when it was her turn to say goodbye. Marissa stepped to the podium and gazed out at the audience. So many people. But there were quite a few familiar faces she had seen at her lectures. Clarice, of course, sitting at the front with her writing box on her lap and her pencil poised. Mrs. Austin, who nodded and smiled. And Mrs. Austin’s daughter, Rose, her face free of bruises, who gave her a shy nod. And there, smiling up at her, were Sarah Swan, and Ina, and Judith, and Lily...

  And then her gaze fell on the ones she sought. Mrs. Winston, with her lovely face so calm and serene, looking dignified in her black mourning gown. And Grant, so handsome he took her breath away. She didn’t dare meet his gaze, lest she forget everything but him and the wonder of their growing love.

  She took a breath, grateful she had only to speak a short summary of her message and then say goodbye. “When I accepted the invitation to speak here at the Chautauqua Sunday School Assembly, it was with a great deal of trepidation. Temperance, the subject of my lectures, is a controversial one.”

  A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.

  “Overindulgence in strong drink can alter a man’s personality. It can make a kind man cruel and abusive to those who love him, and whom he loves, and bring senseless death to young men through their own foolish actions.”

  I miss you, Lincoln.

  “I thought there was only one answer to the problem—to close down all of the taverns and inns and clubs where strong drink is sold. And I still wish, with all my heart, that all strong drink would cease to exist. But that is an improbable hope.”

  Another murmur of agreement spread among her listeners.

  There are two sides to this temperance issue, Marissa. She looked down at Grant, read the understanding in his eyes, and looked away before she lost control and the tears started to fall.

  “So I leave Chautauqua with a different wish in my heart. I wish that all of you would extend mercy to those who are the victims of the imbibers. That you would work in your towns and communities to create a shelter for the abused, a place they can flee to when an angry hand is raised against them. A place where they and their family will receive understanding and love, instead of judgment and shame.”

  She lifted her hand and grasped her mother’s watch, then looked down at Mrs. Winston.

  “And I hope that all of you will pray for the abusers, and create a place where they, also, might receive help and understanding. For surely, when they sober and realize how they have hurt the ones who love them, the ones they love, they must suffer the pain of torment.”

  Please help my father, Lord. She lowered her hand and lifted her chin, prepared to share the verse she had found yesterday in the clearing when she had prayed for her father.

  “The Bible says we are to pray for one another—even those ‘who despitefully use you.’ My hope, my prayer is that you will answer that call. Thank you and good evening.”

  * * *

  The house was dark in the dusk, the porch a beckoning shadow. When would she see it again? Marissa closed her mind to the thought. All afternoon and evening she had been saying goodbye, and the hardest was yet to come.

  “I’ll go in first and light the lamps for you, Mother.”

  Grant’s voice drew her back to the present; his fading footsteps brought her to another moment of parting. She would miss his mother. She had learned so much from her and had grown to love her. The hems of the short trains on their black gowns brushed across the stone as they walked side by side to the house. Her throat closed around a painful lump when Mrs. Winston stopped at the base of the steps.

  “I’m so thankful I came to hear you speak tonight, Marissa. I was very moved by what you said. And I know many others were, as well.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Mrs. Winston.” She picked a leaf off the vine and tucked it into her pocket to take home with her. “It was you who made me think about how my father must be suffering. I only repeated what you taught me.”

  “You said what was in your heart, dear. If I, in any way, helped you to recognize that, I’m very pleased.”

  Yellow lamplight spilled from the sitting room window and chased the shadow from the porch. It was time. Her eyes stung with tears.

  “I shall miss you, Marissa. I’ve grown very fond of you.”

  “And I of you.” The words were a painful whisper. Grant’s footsteps sounded on the porch. Mrs. Winston’s hand touched her arm.

  “Will you write to me, dear? I shall wor—wonder about you, and how you fare with your temperance work. I’ll be most interested to know how you come along with the shelter for the abused you are planning to start in your town.”

  Grant came off the porch, moved a few steps toward the road and waited.

  She swallowed, forced out words, tried for a smile and failed. “I’ll write. I’m certain I shall be asking you for advice. Your shelter will be far ahead of mine.”

  “Our shelter, Marissa.” Mrs. Winston gave a soft, little laugh. “If you hadn’t led Sarah and the other ladies in a protest march against the vineyard, the Twin Eagle Vineyard Shelter for the Abused would never have come into being. What a blessing that march turned out to be.”

  God will work a blessing for you into every situation.

  She blinked and nodded.

  Mrs. Winston stepped close, enfolded her in a warm hug. “And what a blessing you are to me, dear. I shall pray for you every day. And for God to work things out.” Mrs. Winston laughed, turned and walked up the steps. “I know you and Grant have made plans, but I believe God has a plan, also. And I prefer His, no matter what it may be, because His way is always the best way. Now, I shall stop talking and go inside so I don’t make you miss your train.”

  The door closed.

  She looked down at the stone walk, took a deep breath and caught her lower lip with her teeth.

  “Marissa...”

  “Y-yes?”

  “If I hold you will it make it better or worse?”

  “B-both.”

  “Then, for the sake of any neighbors who may be watching, I’ll content myself with loaning you my handkerchief.”

  A white square of linen was handed over her shoulder and waved like a flag. Her lips twitched. It was exactly the sort of thing Mrs. Winston would do. Grant was a good deal like his mother. It was no wonder she loved them both. “Coward.” She took the handkerchief and dried her eyes, turned and handed it back. “Thank you. I’m ready to go now. Do you think the neighbors would approve if I take your arm?” She gave him a saucy grin.

  “A pox on the neighbors!”

  The words were a husky growl. Grant clasped both sides of her shawl, gave a quick yank that pulled her close, claimed her lips then let her go.

  She stepped back, her cheeks burning, and darted a look at the nearby houses.

  His chuckle made her toes tingle.

  “Now who’s the coward?”

  He
took her hand, tucked it in the crook of his arm and started down the long slope of the road.

  She wanted to turn and run the other way.

  “Marissa...”

  She loved how he said her name. It sounded different...special. “Yes?”

  “Will you be all right?” He covered her hand with his, looked down at her. “I hate the thought of you going home.” His hand flexed. “If your father hits you, I’ll—”

  Fear twisted in her already taut stomach. She lifted her head, forced confidence into her voice. She couldn’t let him know she was afraid. “I’ll be all right, Grant. I’m going to talk to the board members of our church about opening a shelter. I’m sure there are members of the congregation who will sacrifice some of their time to run it.”

  She reached beneath the fear to find the new assurance of faith in God she was learning. “I’ve learned so much from your mother about faith, and the Christian way to treat others. Having the church involved will be perfect.”

  “Christians are only people, Marissa. They’re not perfect.”

  She hadn’t alleviated his concern for her. It was still in his voice. She tightened her grip on his arm. “I know. But God is.”

  “You are learning from Mother.”

  He couldn’t quite carry off the attempt at humor. She rested her head against his shoulder for an all too brief moment, straightened and caught her breath as they reached the curve at the bottom of the hill and the railroad station came into view. How long...

  The Colonel Phillips floated at anchor at the end of the long dock. Rowboats and canoes snubbed to the pilings along its length bobbed on the water. People strolled about on the shore area between the lake and the railroad station, clustered in small groups beneath the wide overhangs of the roof. Piles of trunks and mounds of bags sat on the ground beside the railroad tracks. Hers was among them.

  “Chatauquans are going home.” There was a quiver in her voice.

  “Until next year.”

  Frustration colored his words. He turned at an angle and she walked willingly beside him to “their” spot in the dark shadow of the tree close to the station yard. “I’ll say my goodbye here.”

  Her composure shattered. Tears slipped down her cheeks.

  His arms closed around her, held her to him. He lowered his head and pressed his cheek against her hair.

  “I hate to have you go home, Marissa. Two years is so long. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  His husky voice added to the pain in her heart. “I’ll be all right, Grant. I’ll be busy working to make a place of shelter...to make sure my mother will be safe. And there will be speaking engagements to—”

  A whistle blew. A beam of light split the darkness.

  He lifted his hands and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “And next year at Chautauqua.”

  The whistle blew again. The light widened. Wheels clattered against the metal rails.

  He kissed her. A fierce, desperate kiss that splintered her heart. She pressed against him, needing his strength, the sureness and security of his arms. Next year at Chautauqua. A lifetime. “Yes, next year at Chautauqua. If you don’t forget me.”

  The clattering slowed, stopped. The door on the baggage car opened and crew members hopped down to the ground, lifted trunks and bags to unseen men inside who stowed them away in the dark cavernous interior. A porter shoved steps in place and helped a woman descend from the passenger car. Two men followed. The porter tugged a watch from his pocket, glanced at it and hurried into the station.

  “Forget you?” Grant’s voice was thick, gruff. “Never, Marissa. That’s not possible.” His lips brushed hers, soft, warm, tender...heartbreaking.

  She slipped her hand through his offered arm and they stepped out of the tree shadow, crossed the yard and walked to the passenger car, the ache in her heart deepening with every step. His strong hand held hers, steadied her as she climbed the steps. She entered the car, turned and looked down at him. Her lips trembled when she curved them into a smile. “Next year at Chautauqua...”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The lamps were still lit. Grant scowled at the sight, crossed the porch and opened the door. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation. But his mother cared about Marissa. She’d want to know.

  He took a long breath, tried to arrange his expression so he didn’t look as if he wanted to rip the world apart, and stepped to the sitting room door. His scowl returned. His mother was sitting at the end of the settee wearing a dark gray gown—no doubt “saving” the black mourning gown she’d worn to Chautauqua for when she was in public. He hated it. His mother liked red and blue and green.

  What colors did Marissa like? Pain streaked through him. He’d never seen her in any but the somber black, purple and dark gray mourning gowns she wore in memory of her brother. He couldn’t even imagine how beautiful she would look in a yellow gown that matched her blond hair, or a blue one the color of her eyes. His scowl deepened. Wearing mourning clothes was a barbaric custom! What purpose did it serve but to keep people gloomy all the time? He’d had his fill of it. He grabbed hold of the black band on his sleeve, yanked it off and strode into the room.

  “Mother, I’m the head of this house now, and I don’t ever want to see you in that dismal gray gown again. Father would hate it. I saw the way he looked when you walked into a room wearing your red dress. You wear that gown tomorrow in his memory.” He walked to the fireplace and threw the armband on top of the wood waiting to be kindled on a cold evening. “You don’t need to be walking around in somber colorless gowns, and I don’t need a piece of black cloth wrapped around my arm to remember Father.”

  He sucked in a breath, turned and faced her. “She’s gone.”

  “I’m sorry, Grant.”

  He nodded, looked down at his shirt she was mending—the one he’d caught the sleeve of on a nail in the barn. It seemed as if his mother always had something to do with her hands. He unclenched his and shoved them in his pockets.

  “I know this isn’t what you wanted...”

  His snort burst out before he could stop it. “Sorry, Mother, I’m a little...angry. I’m being forced to accept a circumstance I want no part of.” He yanked his hands from his pockets and strode to the window that looked out on the porch. “If her father strikes her...” His jaw muscle twitched, his hands fisted. “If he hurts her...”

  There was a quick rustle, the swish of his mother’s hems across the oriental rug. Her hand rested on his back. His muscles tensed at the touch. Countless times his mother had soothed his hurts with that tender touch, but not this time. Nothing would alleviate the snarl of emotions within him until Marissa was safe in his arms again.

  “I understand your concern for Marissa, Grant. I was worried for her safety, too. But I’ve been praying as I sewed, and—I can’t tell you how or when—but I know everything is going to be all right. God is going to work this out.”

  I can’t tell you how or when...

  An image of Marissa standing in the doorway of the passenger car with tear-filled eyes and trembling lips flashed against the darkness outside. “Forgive me, Mother. But I’m finding it a little hard to believe that at the moment.”

  “I hate to see you hurting like this.” Her voice had thickened; her hand rubbed his back. “Please, Grant, trust the Lord. He’ll work it out. Where’s your faith, son?”

  The image flashed again. But this time Marissa turned away and hurried into the passenger car. The whistle blew...

  “My faith, Mother?” He turned and looked down at her. “It’s on a train to Fredonia.”

  * * *

  The passenger car rocked gently in rhythm to the sound of the wheels against the steel rails. Clackity-clack...two years... Clackity-clack...two years...

  Marissa tugged the black shawl she’d draped around her
head a little farther forward and kept her face turned toward the window beside her to further discourage any attempt at conversation by the woman sharing the bench seat. For once, she was thankful for the black mourning gown she wore. It explained her tears, her swollen red eyes and the sodden wad of handkerchief she clutched in her hand—or so the woman would think.

  Bits and pieces of the conversations among the other passengers floated through the car identifying those speaking as having been to the Chautauqua Sunday School Assembly. The conversationalists had been comparing notes about their experiences the entire trip.

  One year and she could return. They would ride the Colonel Phillips to Fair Point together and—

  The locomotive’s whistle blew. She jerked, blinked the film of tears from her eyes and searched the darkness outside the window. They were approaching the Fredonia Station. Her stomach knotted. She dabbed the wet handkerchief against her burning eyes and prepared to detrain. But she would sit on one of the benches under the wide overhanging eves of the station for a bit before she walked home. She did not want her parents to see her so...undone. And her father would send one of his employees to fetch her trunk tomorrow.

  Steam hissed. The bell on the engine clanged. The car lurched then rolled to a stop. The door at the back opened. “All off for Fredonia!” The porter strode to the side of the car, opened the door at the center and lowered the steps.

  She rose from her seat, avoided the glances of others getting off the train. A man stood in the narrow aisle at the end of his seat, held his hat in his hand and waited for her to pass. She approached the door and descended the steps assisted by the porter. A heaviness weighted her chest, made it hard for her to breathe. Would she find her mother well or bruised? Would her father be in his right senses or inflamed by wine? There was no way to know what awaited her at home.

  Moths fluttered around the lanterns hanging from the wide eaves and threw huge swooping shadows against the brick building. The night air chilled her. She lifted the black shawl off her head, lowered it to rest around her shoulders, spurned the bench beneath the lantern and started for the one in the shadowed area by the corner away from the moths.