The Wind Harp
Page 24
“He doesn’t seem to be angry,” Maggie finally said.
Jonathan went to her, took both her hands in his, and pulled her a little closer…though not too close. “No, he’s not angry.”
“What did he say?” she choked out.
His smile warmed her skin and her heart. It was like being bathed by the sun.
“He said that we have his blessing.”
She should say something. But all she could manage was a whispered, “Oh…”
“Even so, fifteen minutes isn’t nearly long enough for a proper proposal.”
“Oh…” Maggie said again.
“When a man proposes, he wants it to be memorable, after all.”
“I expect so,” she said quietly. “How long…would a proper proposal take, do you think?”
He seemed to consider the question. “An entire evening, to do it up right, I’d say.”
“A whole evening?”
He nodded. “At least. Unfortunately, I can’t see him leaving us alone for that long. Can you?”
She pulled a face. “Not unless he’s sound asleep. And I’ve always suspected he sleeps with one eye open.”
He tugged her a little closer. “But he could hardly object to a restaurant filled with other people, now could he?”
“I don’t suppose, but—a crowded restaurant?”
“I’d have to drive you home after dinner. We can make it work.”
“All right. But…when?”
“Considering our time limitations—and the busy, difficult week we’ve just gone through—I suppose we should wait at least a few more days, until the dust settles, so to speak.”
She nodded, albeit reluctantly.
“In the meantime, it might be a good idea to have a brief rehearsal.”
“A rehearsal?”
“Exactly. You see, Maggie, I had my heart set on kissing you goodnight for the first time tonight, but your father would frown on that without a proposal in place and a mutual commitment. Don’t you think?”
“He wouldn’t approve,” she agreed, again reluctantly.
She felt the hands holding hers tremble slightly. Or were they her hands that were trembling? She couldn’t really tell, what with the way he was holding on to her. She felt a little dizzy. If he hadn’t been clasping her hands so securely, she thought her legs might buckle right out from under her.
But he was holding her steady, with his hands…and with his eyes.
“Remember now, this is simply a rehearsal,” he said softly.
She nodded, her heart giving a jubilant little leap.
“So, then…Maggie…my love…will you marry me?”
“Yes,” she said. Just to make certain he’d heard her, she cleared her throat and said it again. “Oh, yes!”
“Soon,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
“I should hope so,” she said. “We’ve put this off long enough.”
“I was thinking of December. During our Christmas break from school.”
“That soon?”
“Soon? At this moment, December sounds like a ridiculously long time away.”
“There’s a lot to do to get ready for a wedding, Jonathan—”
“Maggie…”
“But I can manage.”
His eyes were actually dancing. She knew hers were too, in spite of a few tears swimming in them.
And then Jonathan kissed her, just the corner of her lips, with a lingering, unspeakable tenderness.
It was as if she had been blessed.
He drew her into his arms, closer now, and kissed her again, rather more thoroughly this time.
In that moment, every wish, every daydream, every prayer for the future that the young Maggie…and the grownup Maggie…had ever harbored in her heart came true.
Epilogue
A Night to Remember
O holy night, O night divine…
Placide Clappeau
Christmas Eve, 1904
Jonathan took one final, thorough look around the classroom that on this Christmas Eve would become a holy place: the chapel for his and Maggie’s wedding.
Most couples in Skingle Creek were married in the church or at home, but he and Maggie had decided they would be wed in this building, in the school that had played such a vital part in their lives for so many years. With the help of a few friends, an altar had been constructed at the front of the room, directly in front of the rough-hewn, unpainted wooden cross that had been nailed to the wall when the building was first erected. Jonathan had always been thankful that a cross, the constant reminder of his Lord’s sacrifice, and another carved in its likeness, graced both classrooms in the school.
Garlands and wreaths of dried wild flowers added gentle touches of color to the otherwise rustic surroundings. Flickering lanterns and candles bathed the room in a soft, golden light, gilding the simplicity of the setting and its furnishings with a loveliness that brought an ache to his heart. He had wanted to bring as much beauty and warmth as possible to this special night—his and Maggie’s night. God’s night.
They had chosen Christmas Eve for their wedding not simply because the Christmas break would allow them to be away from school for a time, although that was the practical side of it, but because this place, this time of year, held special significance for both of them.
The memories of another winter’s night came rushing in on him, as he’d known they would. On that night many years ago, this same room had been the setting of a miracle, one that had saved—and changed—his life. And Jonathan believed with all his heart that tonight this room, so dearly familiar and so simple in its lack of pretension, would host yet another miracle that would change his life.
He walked up the aisle that had been cleared of desks and chairs for the occasion. With a lingering look at the wooden cross on the wall, he knelt at the altar and began to pray to the One who had brought him to his knees on a daily basis throughout most of his life.
His prayer issued from a heart so filled with gratitude and love it threatened to overwhelm him. He prayed to be the man Maggie believed him to be, the husband she deserved him to be, and one day, please God, the father he had always hoped to be.
He stayed as he was, on his knees, until Ben, his closest friend and pastor, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and roused him.
“It’s time to get you behind the scenes, my friend,” said the pastor. “We have guests arriving. I think you’ll be surprised by how many. Your bride will be making an entrance before long.”
Jonathan got to his feet and shook hands with his long-time friend and followed him to the supply closet leading off the room.
His bride…
Another miracle.
Fifteen minutes later Jonathan cracked the door of the closet just enough to get a look at those who had come to witness the wedding. He caught his breath at the sight of the chairs, already filled, and the steady stream of people filing along the back of the room to stand and watch.
He turned to Ben. “It looks as if the whole town is here!”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” Ben said, smiling broadly. “These people love you, Jonathan. And Maggie.”
Jonathan turned around quickly, unwilling to let even his best friend see the emotion welling up in him. Allowing himself another look into the schoolroom, he saw Maggie’s mother and Eva Grace, now large with child, sitting in front. Maggie’s other sister, Nell Frances, was also expecting and had reluctantly stayed in Indiana.
He keenly felt the absence of his own family, but his father was no longer able to travel, and his sister, Patricia, wouldn’t leave him. He and Maggie would see them soon, though, on their honeymoon trip to Lexington.
There was Dr. Gordon, seated right behind Eva Grace. And the Rankins, the family of Maggie’s friend, Summer, who had died in childhood. Even Dr. Woodbridge and his wife were here.
And Carolyn Ross. Carolyn, who had come to both of them weeks before and wished them well. Carolyn, who had also suggested that sh
e was considering giving up her employment at the school “to try something new.”
But Maggie had asked her to stay. “Please don’t leave. Jonathan needs you to look after all the things he can’t look after and to keep him organized. I’d like you to stay…and be my friend.”
So Carolyn was staying. And Jonathan and Maggie were both glad.
And then there were the children—from the smallest to those in their teens—it seemed the entire student body of Skingle Creek had aligned themselves in the back of the room. Some who had just entered were shaking the snow from their coats and hats.
“It’s snowing!” Jonathan whispered to Ben. “Oh, Maggie’s going to love this! She hoped it would snow tonight.”
“I suppose you prayed for that too,” Ben said dryly.
“I tried to cover everything.”
“You did well.”
Not for the first time, Jonathan withdrew the ring box from his pocket and opened it to reassure himself. The gold ring, woven in an Irish braid, caught the light from a nearby lantern and glowed like a promise kept.
Maggie’s only difficult moment came when she looked up at her da and saw the dampness in his eyes.
“Well, Maggie,” he said after clearing his throat. “You’re quite sure, are you, that this is what you want?”
“I am, Da,” Maggie said. “And I want to thank you for giving us your blessing. It wouldn’t have been right without it.” On impulse, she slipped her arms around her father’s neck. “I love you, Da,” she choked out. She must not weep. She would not weep.
Her father tipped his head to kiss her, ever so gently on the cheek, then lifted her chin to search her face. “And I love you as well, Maggie a gra. You’re a good daughter. And you’ll be a fine, good wife to your husband.”
For the first time Maggie wished she had not foregone the bridal veil. It would have concealed the treacherous tears welling in her eyes, threatening to spill over.
Her father offered his arm. “I’m sorry you’ll be walking down the aisle with a lame man at your side,” he said gruffly.
Maggie managed a fierce look for him as she took his arm. “In truth, I’ll be walking down the aisle with the most handsome man in town,” she said. “Except for the groom, of course.”
“Of course.”
At that moment, her brother, Ray, opened the door to the schoolroom, and she saw him…Jonathan…standing at the altar.
He was achingly handsome in a dove-gray suit, his flaxen hair gleaming in the soft light. He looked like a prince.
“It’s time, Maggie,” said Da.
She was a vision in ivory lace and a satin sash, a princess with a crown of dried wild flowers, a wonder with a smile that lit the room and set his heart ablaze.
Jonathan drew in the breath that he had lost at the first sight of her, and then reached behind him for his flute. He had been unwilling that she should walk the aisle without music. And, unconventional as it might be, it seemed only right that he be the one to make the music.
He saw her eyes glisten in surprise as he lifted the flute to his lips and began to play “The Irish Wedding Song.” He found himself praying again, this time that he wouldn’t collapse and spoil the music.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He followed her every step as he continued to play.
Once before, on that same winter’s night so many years ago, he had played…not a flute, but a tin whistle. A penny whistle that somehow, in the grip of divine power and unspeakable grace, had become an elegant, shining instrument of exultation and praise. He had played it for his God…and he had played it for Maggie. And for an entire room filled with people who loved him.
And now he played again, for his God and for Maggie…in the same room filled with many of the same people…people who loved both him and Maggie.
Finally her father took her hand and placed it in Jonathan’s before stepping away.
“Dearly Beloved,” Ben Wallace began. “We are gathered here together…”
Dear Readers:
If for any reason you missed the story leading up to The Wind Harp, be sure to look for A Distant Music, book 1 of the Mountain Song Legacy, in which Maggie MacAuley is first introduced as a preteen, and Jonathan Stuart as her young schoolteacher.
The story of the penny whistle referred to in The Wind Harp is a very special part of that first book.
And watch for book 3—The Song Weaver—to be released in the fall of 2007, as Maggie and Jonathan’s story continues.
God’s blessing upon you all,
About the Author
Widely recognized for her award-winning historical fiction, BJ Hoff is the author of The Mountain Song Legacy series, The American Anthem series, and the Emerald Ballad series. Her bestselling historical novels have crossed the boundaries of religion, language, and culture to capture a worldwide reading audience. Although she writes of early America and the people who helped build the country, her stories of faith and love and grace are timeless.
When asked about her own story, BJ points to her family: “They’re my favorite story.”
A former church music director and music teacher, BJ and her husband, James, make their home in Ohio, where they share a love of music, books, and time spent with family.
If you would like to contact the author, you may write to BJ:
BJ Hoff
Harvest House Publishers
990 Owen Loop North
Eugene, OR 94702-9173
Or visit www.bjhoff.com
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