I, Charlotte Duvall of Manchester, do solemnly swear and promise to return and entertain more proposals in the event that I am sent home for any reason before the successful completion of one long-term nursing assignment. If successful, however, I will be allowed to pursue a medical education.
I whipped it off my desk and shoved it under the door with a swish. A grumbling reached my ears from the other side of the door. I pictured the great Dr. Phinneas Duvall lowering those dark eyebrows like thunderclouds and whipping the pen from behind his ear to sign. I heard intense scribbling against the door as I picked at the hem of my sleeve, then the note was shoved back under the door. Swish.
I, Charlotte Duvall of Manchester, do solemnly swear and promise to return and entertain more proposals immediately marry the man of my father’s choosing in the event that I am sent home for any reason before the successful completion of one long-term nursing assignment. If successful, however, I will be allowed to pursue a medical education.
I frowned at the change, then added one of my own. Nursing situation to be chosen by Charlotte without complaint from her father.
Swish. It was shoved again. Now was the time to put that brilliant scheme into action. I’d seen the list of his patients requesting nurses, and I knew exactly which one I’d choose. I touched the rounded edges of the desk that had held the wonderfully mysterious letter for so long, only adding to its charm, and thought of the great house from which it had come. Father and I hadn’t been there in nearly five years, but I had fond memories of the magnificent seashore mansion.
More scribbles. I chewed my fingernails—when did I ever do that?
The day I considered signing my independence away, apparently. I reached for the doorknob to fling open the door and retract the whole deal, but it was too late. Swish. The contract came back.
Signed.
I lifted it with shaky fingers and read the wording several times without digesting all of it. Change was coming. Soon enough I’d be a full-fledged medical student—or a wife.
Checking to ensure my hastily-donned gown covered everything necessary, I opened the door and stared at Father, taking in the long gray frown of a mustache, the arms folded over his broad chest as if letting nothing penetrate his heart.
I lifted my chin, forcing myself to look into his hard gaze. Thoughts of that beautiful letter made me bold. “I choose Golda Gresham at Crestwicke for my assignment.”
“Crestwicke?” He paled, a red vein protruding on his forehead, then those storm cloud eyebrows lowered. His powerful eyes that terrified men on the hospital board were now directed at me, and I braced against a cringe. A growl vibrated his chest. “Out of the question.”
I pointed with a steady finger at the last line I had added. He was allowed no arguments. If he insisted on choosing my husband, I was at least owed that.
His eyes flashed. “No, no, no, no!” He banged his foot into the floor, rattling knickknacks on hall tables.
Footsteps hurried up the stairs, and my stepmother Thelma’s generous, pudgy face with too-close eyes appeared on the landing behind Father, shadowed by the lamp she carried. Compared to my beautiful mother, she was, like her position here, merely serviceable. “Phinneas?”
Her keen eyes shifted to me, then blinked, and she stepped back as if her question about the source of commotion had been answered. Father handed her the paper we’d signed. The very gown about my ribs seemed to strangle me as I stood before them, waiting for her appraisal.
“She chose Crestwicke.” He growled and slapped the paper with the back of his hand.
She looked up at both of us with raised eyebrows. I held my breath as she watched me, her face like the lump of dough she kneaded every evening. Sometimes life hinges on a few words, and these were the ones, softly spoken, that would pivot mine: “Crestwicke it is, then.”
My breath gushed out.
His eyes widened. “You can’t be serious, woman.”
She sighed and lifted tired eyes to me, perhaps a flicker of motherly sympathy in their depths, and murmured the words I would turn over in my head for weeks to come. “There are some things, Phinneas, that you eventually must let her decide for herself.” She threw Father a look heavy with meaning.
When the door closed behind them moments later, I dug out that wonderful letter again and read it at least four more times, losing myself in the words. How beautiful it was. How romantic. Languishing for years in a dark crack of my old writing desk, this letter had lain in wait for the right person to find it—the one who would become enchanted by its contents and resolve to deliver it to the originally intended recipient. I, the spinster scientist who had only this night finished rejecting yet another suitor, was the keeper of this letter, and nothing could be more fitting. Normally I patched up people for a living. Now I was about to do the same to a love story. I was giddy.
Downstairs, I touched my stepmother on the arm as she kneaded dough with the strength of a cart horse. She had a maid to do it, but bread was her specialty and she insisted on torturing herself this way. “Thank you, Thelma.”
She turned, wiping her forehead with the back of her floury hand, and gave a single nod. Her eyes searched mine as if wishing to connect. “I know what it is to love someone deeply. Every girl ought to have that chance. Don’t waste it.”
I studied this woman with whom I’d shared a house for many years and wondered at the softness of her heart that beat within that sturdy chest. “Father?”
She turned away and kneaded harder, her bent neck growing mottled with rosy color. “He’s a fine man, that Phinneas Duvall. A fine, fine man.”
“I would agree.”
“You’d best find yourself a husband at Crestwicke or you’ll come back to find one waiting for you.” She cut through the dough with a long knife then brandished the tool in my direction with narrowed eyes. “And whatever you do, keep that tongue in your head. Hear me? In your head!” She swatted my cheek with her floury free hand for good measure, and I saw the barest trace of maternal concern behind that overworked face.
“I shan’t apologize for using the only asset available to a woman in this world ruled by men. Words are my secret weapon.”
She shook her head. “Aye, and you have a quiver full of them.”
I smiled as I backed away, thinking of the powerful words of that letter and how they filled my little spinster heart with hope. Maybe being in the presence of such a raw and beautiful love story would inspire my own. Like the scientist I was, I’d untangle my ailment and find the root cause, then the right treatment.
Because secretly, very secretly, I desperately wished to marry. I just hadn’t any idea who.
I turned with a nod and a “good day” and a bright new hope. Soon I’d be packed onto a train to the shore, to Crestwicke, where I would be able to untangle the story of the letter writer who loved someone he or she had no business loving.
I pictured the place, that proud old Tudor-style country house hunched on the very edge of the coast like an old beggar woman. Somewhere in those vast ivy-covered walls lived a person who was about to have the happiest surprise ever.
As long as it wasn’t too late.
Discussion Questions
They say a house is always a reflection of its mistress. In what ways did Raina resemble the house while she was there?
Raina changed so much when she arrived at the abbey that she nearly believed herself to be an entirely different person. How do external things impact our identity? What would you say is the core of who you are?
In the beginning, Prendergast’s offer seemed too good to be true, and later she thought the same of Uncle Wells. What is it that made those two offers so different, and how do they resemble offers made to us by the world, and by God?
What changes did you see in Raina when she began to “turn mirrors into windows” and focus on others instead of her own self-image? Why do you think it is so important to look out instead of just looking inward?
Raina returns to t
he house after the fire and discovers God is still present in those abandoned rooms, even in the midst of their ruin. How does this parallel her life and her heart in that moment? What evidence have you seen of God in the midst of ruin?
What are the ways we see Raina rationalizing her part in the scheme? What do you think were her reasons, besides saving Sully? Which did you agree or disagree with?
What elements of Uncle Wells, particularly in chapter 25 and the scene where Raina reveals the truth to everyone, show us how God responds to us? What was most meaningful to you in what he said in those scenes?
What did you find meaningful in the longtime, often selfless love between childhood friends Raina and Sully?
How did a few of the people in the house struggle with understanding who they were? How do you?
How does the following diary entry come into play throughout the house? “Just because it’s who we have always been, it does not mean it’s who we were created to be.”
Did you feel the conclusion, with penalties for both Raina and Sully, was fitting? What did you find interesting or meaningful about the ending?
Acknowledgments
This book was a total blast to write, and part of that is because of the people who joined me in the process. I had so much fun imagining possibilities and chasing down ideas with Susan Tuttle, Dawn Crandall, Stacey Zink, my dad Bob Davidson, my husband Vince, Crystal Caudill, Allen Arnold, Rachel Fordham, and many others. You all are phenomenal.
I thank God for taking me on an unexpected journey with this book when he made it clear I had the ending to this mystery—and answers to my deeper questions—totally wrong and that I didn’t get it yet. I’m starting to now, and it’s been a fun ride! No book ever has the same process when God is driving, and I love that.
I truly owe this story to my exceptionally wonderful team at Revell as well for pouring their energy into it and wrestling it into shape, sorting and sifting through my words and sewing up every plot hole with precision and beauty. Vicki Crumpton and Barb Barnes, extraordinary editors, constantly amaze me with both their intelligence and graciousness as we rewrite and polish together. The marketing team is powerful, talented, and fun. The entire group is a joy to know, and I’m thankful to be in your capable hands.
I appreciate my readers so much as well. You all make it exponentially fun to write, to twist the plot, to come up with surprising and nuanced scenes that will keep you reading. Your interactions and your enthusiasm have been an unexpected blessing—more than I can convey with words. I’ve discovered so many like-minded readers through this gig, and I treasure those connections.
Lastly, I’m very appreciative of my little brother, who has been an ongoing demonstration of what it means to figure out who you are and how to somehow turn that inward search into outward focus, others-centeredness, and servanthood. In a book about identity, you’ve been a great inspiration.
Joanna Davidson Politano is the award-winning author of Lady Jayne Disappears and A Rumored Fortune. She freelances for a small nonfiction publisher but spends much of her time spinning tales that capture the colorful, exquisite details in ordinary lives. She is always on the hunt for random acts of kindness, people willing to share their deepest secrets with a stranger, and hidden stashes of sweets. She lives with her husband and their two babies in a house in the woods near Lake Michigan and shares stories that move her at www.jdpstories.com.
JDPStories.com
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