A smile tugged at her lips. “Papa said he fell in love with my mother almost immediately. That she was sweet, full of life, and the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.”
“Then you must resemble her.”
Rosaleen’s heart hammered at Jacob’s quiet comment. Disconcerted, she fixed her gaze on her hands twisting the piece of linen in her lap. “When they reached New York, Papa got my mother a decent apartment and asked her to be his wife. As a token of his intentions, he bought her the brooch you’ve seen me wear.”
Jacob nodded. “Yes, I’ve noticed it. It’s beautiful. He must have loved your mother very much.”
Jacob’s gentle tone caused a knot of tears to gather in her throat.
“They married, then?” Jacob asked before taking a big bite of chicken.
“No. One evening Papa came to my mother’s place to let her know he’d found a domestic position for her as soon as she delivered her baby. He found her alone and in labor. Unable to find a midwife, Papa helped to bring me into the world. An hour later, my mother died.” Rosaleen’s voice drooped. Tears stung her eyes, and she wondered why she still wept over a mother she’d never known.
“Rosaleen, I’m so sorry—”
She waved off his condolences. “Before she died, my mother begged Papa to take me and raise me as his own. And so he did.” Her voice lifted with her spirit at the memory.
“We traveled the steamboats up and down the Mississippi, Missouri, and Ohio Rivers—wherever the next card game presented itself. Papa provided me a happy and interesting childhood, although many times we barely had enough money to get by. I’m afraid my father, though a persistent gambler, was not a very successful one.”
“Then you’ve never had a real home?” For the first time, she caught a glimpse of concern flit across his face.
She shook her head and took a sip of sweet tea. “No, but never having had one, I didn’t miss it.”
“Is that why your father sent you to the young ladies’ academy—so you’d have a home?” He pitched the chicken bone to the grassy slope where a pair of blackbirds set upon it, noisily feuding over the prize.
“No. My father became ill.” She fought new tears and somehow managed the hateful word, “Consumption. I was but twelve and he didn’t want to leave me alone. His older brother and wife, from whom he’d been estranged for many years, live in Natchez, Mississippi. They reluctantly agreed to take me but found my illegitimacy unacceptable. Within a month, they sent me to Jackson, Mississippi, and into Mrs. Griswold’s employ as a housemaid.”
Her voice lowered, and she winced at the recollection. “Six months later, I learned of my father’s death.”
“Rosaleen, I’m sorry. I never meant to resurrect such painful memories.”
The sweetness of Jacob’s voice and his hand covering hers sent more tears sketching down her cheeks.
“Sooo,” Jacob stretched out the word, “where does Mr. Archer come in?”
She drew in a shaky breath and continued. “August of last year, Mrs. Griswold’s academy closed, and I returned to my guardian’s home.” Her lips twitched with a tiny, forced smile. “The moment I arrived, I was informed I’d be marrying Mr. Donovan Archer, a riverboat pilot thirteen years my senior.” Rosaleen turned the thin gold band on the third finger of her left hand. Thoughts of her late husband always brought a rush of fond memories, and she smiled. “Donovan was looking for a wife familiar with life on the river.”
“Then you and Mr. Archer weren’t—I mean there hadn’t been a courtship—I mean. . .”
Rosaleen hurried to Jacob’s rescue when he stumbled for an appropriate description of her unexpected union. “It was a marriage of convenience. Mr. Archer was a widower of some years and a kind and honorable man.” She met Jacob’s intent gaze and hoped he could discern from her look the sentiment of love lacking in her brief marriage. She also hoped to convey the mutual respect and caring that had defined it.
“I’m sure he was,” Jacob replied. “I’m so sorry to learn of the grief you’ve experienced but glad God sent you a season of joy, however brief.”
While they finished the two pieces of apple pie in silence, Rosaleen found it impossible to read the thoughts behind his eyes.
Suddenly, he leaned toward her and took her hands into his, causing her to emit a soft gasp of surprise. The comfort of his strong, warm grasp filled Rosaleen with longing. She could only imagine how wonderful it might feel to be enveloped in the sanctuary of his arms, to rest her head against his chest.
“Rosaleen, you are young. God has so many wonderful things waiting for you, if you will only allow Him to guide you.”
Her gaze followed his to the building under construction.
“I realize it doesn’t look like much now, but God willing, by winter, I will be the pastor of a fine church and growing congregation. A congregation that could be the family you’ve been denied. I pray that you might allow me to be a part—”
“Jacob!” The man’s shouted greeting and the mule-drawn wagon rattling to a stop on Broadway broke into Jacob’s entreaty. “We got that load of two-by-eights from the lumber yard.”
Heart pounding, Rosaleen stood and hastily covered the remnants of their lunch with the linen cloths. What had he been about to suggest? She told herself that she was thankful their conversation had been brought to an abrupt close. She attempted a light tone but couldn’t keep the tremor from her voice. “Mrs. Buchanan will be wondering what’s keeping me.”
Jacob sent a quick glance of dismay toward the three men unloading the lumber from the wagon. As he caught her arm in a gentle grasp, his gaze searched hers. “Please, just consider the possibility of my suggestion.”
Rosaleen nodded, amazed that he’d still want anything to do with her after what he’d learned. She hurried toward Broadway, the graveled street blurring through her tears. What must he think of her? She’d told too much. She was glad she’d stopped short of confessing the horrors she’d experienced at the hands of Bill McGurty.
He meant nothing more than wanting me to attend his church, that’s all.
Whether she believed that made little difference. She knew it was best if she did believe it.
Three blasts of a steamboat’s whistle shot fear through her, and she quickened her steps. She must leave Madison at the earliest possible moment.
As difficult as it might be to accomplish that task, it would be simple compared to the impossibility of expunging Jacob Hale from her heart.
Seven
Jacob sat in a horsehair-upholstered wing chair, his face aching from the smile he’d pasted across it. He found only marginal consolation in the fact that the faces of every other person in the parlor mirrored his own.
Broken only by the occasional wince, the stiff features of his congregation expressed their mutual suffering.
Seeming oblivious to the torture she was inflicting, Myrtle Stinnett sat before the keyboard of the new piano, butchering “Rock of Ages.”
Before the final note of the hymn had mercifully faded away, Jacob jumped to his feet. “Thank you so very much, Mrs. Stinnett, for that moving rendition.”
He hurried to help her up from the piano bench, fearing she might be inspired to deliver an encore. After leading the congregation in benediction, he wrestled with the thorny problem as he mingled with his flock.
The new piano, which had arrived earlier in the week, had indeed proved a mixed blessing. His heart sang remembering the joy that lit Rosaleen’s face as workers uncrated it in the parlor. A near twin to Becky and Ephraim’s instrument, it now graced the front left quadrant of the room.
Later that day, he’d caught Rosaleen walking around the piano. Watching her fingers stroking the beautiful rosewood finish of the cabinet, he’d begged her to play something from the complimentary sheet music the manufacturer had sent along with the instrument.
For the next half hour, he and Mrs. Buchanan, along with Andrew and Patsey Chapman, sat enthralled, listening to a hauntingly beau
tiful rendition of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.”
Frustration gripped Jacob as he left the parlor to bid his parishioners good day at the front door. Shaking hands absently, he prayed for God’s intervention. Lord, somehow You must help me find a way to replace Myrtle Stinnett with Rosaleen as pianist for worship services. Psalm 27:14 sprang to his mind. “Wait on the LORD: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart: wait, I say, on the LORD.”
“Well, Reverend Hale, do you not agree that the new piano is a wonderful addition to services, especially with Myrtle at the keyboard?”
Roscoe Stinnett’s question jerked Jacob from his reverie. Except for his sister, Becky, and her family, the Stinnetts were the last in the line of parishioners filing out of the boardinghouse.
Praying for guidance, Jacob chose his words carefully. “I do believe it shall prove to be a true blessing. Again, I thank you and Mrs. Stinnett for your generosity.”
He turned his attention to Myrtle Stinnett’s slight, retiring figure, half hidden behind her husband’s robust bulk. Her reticent demeanor beside her overbearing husband always evoked a feeling of sympathy from Jacob. “As for your contribution as pianist, Mrs. Stinnett, I’m speechless.”
“My playing would have been better if my rheumatism wasn’t acting up,” she murmured, her eyes not quite meeting his. Grimacing, she wrung her lace-gloved hands then lowered her pinched features until they disappeared behind her gray bonnet.
Loath to injure the shy woman’s feelings, Jacob said, “I can honestly say, I found it unequalled by anything I’ve heard before.”
A satisfied smile settled across Roscoe Stinnett’s broad face. He made their farewells and guided his wife outside to join others of the congregation visiting on the lawn.
“Jacob.”
Jacob turned at his sister’s urgent whisper.
“Is there nothing you can do?”
“I only wish there were, Becky.” He gave a wistful sigh and reached out and touched the soft, rosy cheek of his infant niece cooing in her mother’s arms. “The sad thing is, I feel sure it was not Myrtle’s idea to act as pianist but Roscoe’s.”
“Yes,” Becky agreed, repositioning the ivory crocheted wrap the baby had kicked off. “I’m afraid the man bullies her. But you know Myrtle, she’d never say boo to a goose. If only—”
“I know,” he finished her thought, “if only Rosaleen could play for services.”
“Perhaps I can help.” Ephraim, with Daniel in hand, joined his wife. “I confess I was tempted to accompany Daniel on his last trip to the outhouse.”
“But what could you do, dear?” Becky asked.
Jacob, too, wondered what his brother-in-law had in mind.
“I’m not altogether sure, but a few prayers concerning the subject would not be misplaced this week,” Ephraim told them, grinning.
As Jacob watched his sister and her family walk away, he prayed that God had given Ephraim a solution to their prickly problem. Now, if only he could convince Rosaleen to attend services.
Jacob stood at the front door shaking hands, eager to see the last parishioner from the boardinghouse. He continually cast glances down the hallway toward the kitchen where he’d last glimpsed Rosaleen.
Since the day last week when she’d disclosed her history, he’d found his course set and his heart determined. Somehow he must bring her to the knowledge of Christ’s love and salvation.
The moment he bid the last straggler good day, Jacob noticed Rosaleen heading toward the stairway with an armful of linens.
He bolted toward her. “Rosaleen”—touching her arm, he halted her ascent at the bottom step—“I saw you listening during the services. . .out in the hallway.”
“I—”
“Don’t deny it.” He couldn’t help giving her a little grin. “I was wondering if you’d consider playing for Sunday services.”
“But you have a pianist. I heard—”
“Then you realize just how desperately we require your assistance.” Jacob widened his grin.
“But, I’m not—I mean I don’t belong. . .”
The way her gaze dropped to the linens ripped at his heart. How could she not realize how talented, beautiful, and wonderful she was?
“But you do belong. You are exactly who belongs there.” Lifting her chin with the crook of his finger, Jacob forced her to meet his intent gaze. “Rosaleen, you have an amazing talent. If you heard some of my sermon today, you know it dealt with the parable of the talents from the book of Matthew. God gave you this talent. Could you not give just a little of it back?”
He watched her delicate brows slant into a V. “Jacob, I wouldn’t want to cause problems between you and your congregation.”
Though her concern touched him deeply, his heart lifted, detecting a tiny crack in her resistance. He rushed to take advantage of the opportunity, however slight. “Would you take the position if it were open?”
She caught her bottom lip with her teeth, and then after a moment’s hesitation, murmured, “Yes.”
Jacob felt himself exhale a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Don’t be concerned about injuring Myrtle Stinnett’s feelings,” he told her. “I am quite sure she would like to relinquish the position as much as the congregation would like for her to. I’m also confident that the good lady has other talents far more obvious than those musical.”
❧
The following Wednesday afternoon, Jacob sat at the desk in the parlor, immersed in preparation for the next Sunday’s sermon.
Suddenly, Rosaleen’s soft voice pulled his attention toward the doorway. “Jacob.”
As always, Jacob’s heart quickened at her presence.
“Mrs. Stinnett is waiting in the front hallway and wonders if she could have a few minutes of your time.”
“Yes, of course, Rosaleen. Please show her in.”
Jacob’s mind raced, trying to imagine what the woman might want. He found himself unprepared for the sight of Myrtle Stinnett dabbing at her eyes with a lace kerchief.
Hurrying to the distraught woman’s side, he gently ushered her to the green velvet upholstered settee. “My dear lady, whatever could be the problem?”
After situating Mrs. Stinnett, he turned to Rosaleen. “Rosaleen, would you please bring Mrs. Stinnett a cup of tea and some of Patsey’s little seed cakes?”
“Yes, of course,” Rosaleen said, hurrying toward the kitchen.
“Please tell me, Mrs. Stinnett, what has so distressed you?” Jacob pulled the white and yellow silk-upholstered armchair nearer to the settee.
Seeming to have collected herself to some degree, Myrtle Stinnett winced as she twisted the lace kerchief in her lap. “I am sorry to have to inform you, Reverend, but I can no longer act as pianist for the congregation.”
“And why would that be, Mrs. Stinnett?” Inwardly rejoicing, Jacob knew he must walk a very fine line. Surely no one would have been so discourteous as to have commented on her lack of musical ability. Careful not to suggest any such thing, he simply waited for her response.
“I had an appointment this morning with your kinsman, Dr. Morgan.” She glanced down at her gloved hands folded in her lap. “It’s my hands, you see.”
“Your hands?”
“Yes. As I mentioned to you after services last Sunday, I suffer from rheumatism. My hands have been hurting worse than ever, and Dr. Morgan suggested that playing the piano for services may further aggravate the inflammation.” With her left hand, she rubbed the knuckles of her right.
“I know this leaves you without a pianist, and I know Roscoe, too, will be so disappointed. . . .” Her words broke on a soft sob. She dabbed again at her eyes. “But it seems to be either that or my sewing, and I simply will not abandon my needlework.”
“No, no, of course you mustn’t.” Jacob reached over to pat her hand, his heart going out to the woman. “I’m sure someone will step forward and fill the void.”
Suddenly she sat straight up, a flash of i
nspiration registering on her face. “I nearly forgot. My niece, Sophie, will be arriving next week from Miss Ely’s Young Ladies’ Academy in Cincinnati. She has undoubtedly mastered the piano. Why, you must know her—Sophie Schuler? She hails from your home village up in Hamilton County.”
“Sophie Schuler is your niece?” Stunned by the revelation, Jacob barely noticed Rosaleen enter with the tea and cakes.
“Why, yes. When Sophie was born, I promised my sister, Gerite, Sophie’s mother, that Roscoe and I would see to her formal schooling.” Murmuring a thank-you to Rosaleen, Myrtle accepted the offered tea. After pausing to take a sip, she chatted on about how she planned to bring Sophie into Madison’s social circle and hoped to persuade her niece to make Madison her permanent home.
Allowing the woman to prattle on uninterrupted, Jacob found his mind flashing back to his earlier acquaintance with the young Miss Schuler. He’d known Sophie since she was a child. Two years ago, while spending a summer with his brother’s family, he’d briefly courted the then seventeen-year-old Sophie. However, at that time, he’d felt the seven-year age difference too great, and they’d gone their separate ways—him to Madison and her to. . .her to a young ladies’ academy.
“Oh Reverend, I feel so much better.” Brightening, Myrtle Stinnett nibbled on a seed cake, her attitude much revived. “Of course Sophie can play the piano!”
Jacob’s heart slumped with his shoulders.
Oh Lord, help me. What am I to do now?
Eight
“Wonder what the reverend thinks ’bout his ole flame comin’ to spend the summer in Madison?” Patsey asked as she cut out biscuits at the kitchen table.
At Patsey’s giggled question, Rosaleen’s gaze jerked up from the strips of bacon sizzling in the frying pan. She wondered whom Patsey could mean.
The housemaid’s next words supplied the answer. “Yes sirree, wish I could’a been in the parlor when Mrs. Stinnett told him who her niece is! I can jist imagine the look on his face.”
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