Where the Heart Leads

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  His lips twitched. “No. Actually, it’s from the Bible, the book of Proverbs.”

  “Oh.” She raised her shoulders in a blithe shrug, increasing the tempo of the fan. “I’ve never read that book.”

  Thomas’s brows crunched downward. “Never? Don’t you attend church?”

  “Why, certainly! At Christmas, of course, and Easter. But Sunday is Father’s only day away from the office. We rarely leave the house on Sunday.”

  Thomas’s look of dismay made her believe she’d insulted him, although she had no idea how. But she acted quickly to make amends. Dropping the fan into her lap, she took one of his hands and held it between her palms. She pretended to examine it with all seriousness. “As for these hands . . . slothful?” Another flutter of her lashes encouraged pink to blotch his neck. “I think not, Thomas.”

  He withdrew from her grasp, sliding the palm down the length of his thigh before linking his fingers together. His neck faded to its normal color as he stared across the lawn.

  Daphne sighed, lifting the fan once more. “Perhaps tomorrow you could ride out to the estate and join my family for a late breakfast? Cook makes a positively scrumptious cinnamon cake laden with pecans and brown sugar, and Father always insists on ham, bacon, eggs, and waffles, so there will be sufficient food to satisfy your grand appetite.”

  Thomas’s deep blue eyes held conflicting emotions—longing, most certainly, but something else, too. Remorse? Confusion? For long moments he held her captive with the intensity of feeling dancing through his sky-colored eyes. Then his expression suddenly changed to mirth. A light chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Here I thought I’d minded my manners when dining with you, but you still spotted my big appetite.”

  Daphne giggled, matching his light-hearted tone. “As if someone of your size could hide something like that.” She lowered her chin, peeking at him over the top of the fan in a deliberately flirtatious look. “I trust you would also enjoy the . . . company . . . at my father’s estate.”

  “Oh.” He swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Of course I’d enjoy the time with . . . your family.”

  Daphne whisked nonexistent dust from her skirt. “And perhaps you’d have the opportunity to visit with Harry about the campaign. He could inform you what transpired today in your absence.”

  Thomas heaved a sigh. “Truthfully, I probably need to worry less about Harry than about Nadine.” He twisted his lips into a wry grin. “She and I have been getting along as well as two tomcats in a gunnysack ever since Harry told her I was helping with Watson’s campaign.”

  Daphne sat up, curiosity straightening her spine. “I find her reaction puzzling. Has she strong political opinions?”

  “No, she’s always steered away from political discussions, insisting politics is a topic polite people should avoid. So when I ask her why she’s so opposed to Watson, she refuses to answer, telling me I need to figure it out for myself. There’s got to be something upsetting her, though. I wish I knew what it was.”

  Daphne offered a supportive squeeze of her hand on his arm. “She’ll tell you when she’s ready. In the meantime, be patient with her. She’s old and set in her ways, but she loves you—that will bring acceptance in the end.”

  Thomas sucked in his lips for a moment, seeming to consider her words. Then, with a shake of his head, he said, “I’ll talk to her one more time, and if she doesn’t agree to stop badgering me, I’m going to accept Harry’s offer to locate an apartment for me.” He sounded rueful when he added, “She might love me, but she’s making things very uncomfortable.”

  14

  AS THOMAS STEPPED THROUGH the front door of Nadine’s home, his heart felt tangled in knots of confusion from his time with Daphne. Her confession at the park about never attending church had taken him by surprise. “Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers,” the Bible admonished, and Thomas had learned to honor it. But at the end of the evening, as he’d graced her glove-covered knuckles with a kiss, his heart had catapulted into his throat. The lump of longing was still there.

  He latched the door behind him and then pressed his forehead against it, eyes closed. God wouldn’t allow him to feel drawn to a woman of whom He disapproved, would He? People in Gaeddert had certainly disapproved of Pa spending time with Summer when she first arrived in town, yet things had worked out between them. Wouldn’t things work out, then, for him and Daphne?

  Someone spoke his name from behind him. He jumped and spun around, slamming his elbow against the doorjamb. Sucking in a sharp breath, he rubbed his elbow. “Yes, Nadine?”

  Dressed in a navy blue evening gown with a high collar, the pale skin of Nadine’s face almost gave the appearance of an apparition in the muted light filtering through the wide parlor doorway. She arched one brow and glanced at his elbow. “Are you all right?”

  He lowered his hand even though the spot still throbbed. “Just fine, thank you. I . . . I tried to be quiet.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Despite her genial tone, a sense of foreboding gripped Thomas. “Oh?”

  “Yes. Please . . .” She held her hand toward the parlor. “Shall we sit?”

  Thomas followed her into the parlor, waited until she seated herself in her favorite embroidered chair, then settled into the center of the settee. Hoping to appear more relaxed than he felt, he propped his right ankle on his left knee and leaned fully against the stiff backrest of the uncomfortable seat.

  “I trust you had a pleasant afternoon?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The botanical gardens are beautiful.” Thomas wondered if the remainder of the evening would put a damper on the day’s remembered pleasures.

  Nadine’s eyebrows shot up. “Botanical gardens? I thought you spent the day at the . . . campaign headquarters.”

  Had she hesitated or did he only imagine it? He rubbed his dry lips together before responding. “No. I spent the day with Daphne Severt.”

  “Ah.” A quick moue of displeasure crossed Nadine’s face. “I’m not sure that’s any better than campaigning for Watson. . . .”

  Despite himself, Thomas smiled. “Why not? She’s a lovely girl.” He almost sighed with pleasure as he recalled Daphne’s sweet face turned up to his as they drifted across the lake in a swan-shaped boat while several of the real birds floated along beside them. Then he remembered her comment about never attending church, and his heart contracted.

  “Lovely, yes. But spoiled.” Nadine spoke matter-of-factly without a hint of malice, but also without warmth. She shook her head. “I can see nothing of lasting value coming from your relationship with Daphne Severt, Thomas. All of her appeal is superficial—skin deep.” Now her tone took on an edge. “When choosing a life’s mate, there must be more than physical attraction.”

  Thomas frowned. “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  He sat silently as resentment built within him. While he loved Nadine, her interference in his life was becoming tiresome. Besides, her words too closely mirrored the concern that had already struck him. He shoved aside his own worries about Daphne and focused on Nadine. By reminding himself she had no one to fuss over but him, he found the patience needed to hold his tongue. He swallowed and managed a terse response. “Yes, I know.”

  She leaned her head back and closed her eyes for a moment. Her body seemed to relax, her tightly held fingers opening so her hands lay limply in her lap. “Ah, Thomas, you think me foolish and overbearing, don’t you?”

  He certainly wasn’t going to answer that!

  Opening her eyes, she fixed him with a tender look. “But in truth, I’m concerned for you. I was young once, too, as was my son, Rodney, and your stepmother, Summer. Rodney and Summer married for the sake of attraction, you know, and although they were committed to each other, I’m aware of their lack of true happiness together. Summer loves you dearly—she would want more than a superficial relationship for you.”

  Thomas leaned forward, dropping his foot to the floor. “I appr
eciate your concern, Nadine. But there’s no reason to worry. I haven’t made any commitment to Daphne. I just enjoy my time with her.” Heat crept up his neck once again as he recalled the evening he walked Belinda Schmidt home after delivering her load of ironing. If he were truthful, his time with Daphne was different than his time with Belinda, although both had been enjoyable.

  “One more word of advice from an old woman, hmm?” She nodded, as if he’d spoken an agreement. “Make a determined effort to acquaint yourself with Daphne Severt’s character. I’m certain it will not be easy—she has been doubly blessed with external beauty, which would distract the most mature gentleman—but for the sake of avoiding heartbreak, you must try.”

  “I’ll try,” Thomas promised, eager to move to another topic.

  She took a deep breath. “About your involvement in the Watson campaign—”

  Thomas wished they could return to discussing Daphne. He released a derisive grunt. The disrespectful behavior would have appalled his father, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Nadine, please, I don’t understand why—”

  “No, you do not.” Her eyes blazed, but he wondered if her reaction had as much to do with his impolite grunt as it did with Watson. “You do not understand at all.”

  He deliberately gentled his voice. “Then please explain it to me.”

  “I will not waste one second of my lifetime trying to explain myself to you.”

  Plopping back into the seat, he threw his arms wide, forgetting his determination to be gentle. “Then how will we ever reach a compromise on this issue?”

  “There is no compromise.” For a moment, he thought he saw a tear glisten in Nadine’s eye, but she blinked and it disappeared. She continued in an unemotional yet firm tone. “Although my behavior of late no doubt gives you reason to question it, I am not a suffragist. Certainly, if given the opportunity to vote, I would exercise that right and cast my ballot, but I will never join parades or rabble-rouse to be granted the privilege. In truth, although my Horace was a staunch Republican, I have no strong political affiliations.”

  Her statements only served to increase Thomas’s confusion. “Then why—”

  “It is not for political reasons that I question your support of this particular candidate.” She continued in the same unflappable, even voice, as if Thomas hadn’t spoken. She paused, unblinking, fixing Thomas with a look he felt certain bored a hole through him. “What was my advice to you concerning Daphne Severt?”

  Thomas frowned, trying to recall her exact words. He paraphrased, “To look below her surface for the truth of who she is.”

  Nadine nodded, looking satisfied. “Yes, that’s exactly right.” She rose, crossing to stand directly in front of him. She reached out and plucked up his hand, squeezing it between her soft palms just as Daphne had done not long ago. “And, Thomas, that is what you must do with Mr. Watson—look below his surface for the truth of who he is. Then you decide whether he is worthy of your support and admiration.” Releasing his hand, she left the room without a backward glance.

  Thomas sat staring at the doorway where Nadine had exited, processing her puzzling statement. Look below Watson’s surface to the truth? He’d already done so, or he wouldn’t be involved in the campaign to elect him to office. The man’s stand that farmers should be protected went straight to the core of who Thomas was—the son of a man who made his living from what farmers sowed. Supporting him made sense. Didn’t it?

  He rubbed his hand down his face, suddenly very weary. His day in the sun, combined with the emotional upheaval of the final hours, had sapped his energy. He was too tired to pick through Nadine’s comments for nuggets of wisdom. Pushing to his feet, he started for the stairs, and once more someone calling his name brought him to a halt.

  Mildred bustled forward, her brown face wreathed in a warm smile. “Here you go, Mr. Thomas—a letter came in the mail for you.” She pointed to the upper left-hand corner and winked, her double chin tripling with her broad grin. “From a lady, I see. Someone special?”

  Thomas glanced at the name—Belinda! Yes, Belinda was special, but not the way Mildred implied. “A friend from home.” He took the envelope and slipped it into his breast pocket.

  Mildred seemed to wilt for a moment, then shrugged her rounded shoulders. “Well, friends is a good place to start,” she said as if reassuring herself.

  Thomas allowed a chuckle and headed up to his room, taking the stairs two at a time. Mildred’s parting comment rang through his mind. Pa and Summer had started with a good, solid friendship, and he’d never seen a more contented couple. However, when he thought of solidifying a friendship, it wasn’t Belinda he thought of—it was Daphne.

  “Ollenburger!”

  Thomas jerked upright and spun around in his seat. The advertisement he had been checking for errors skidded off the desk and floated to the floor. He picked it up before replying. “Yes?”

  The wide-eyed errand boy waved his hand, beckoning Thomas to the hallway. “Mr. Severt wants a word with you. He says for me to bring you to his office.”

  Thomas placed a glass paperweight over the advertisement and followed the boy up the concrete steps to the main lobby and then to the elevator. His heart pounded. In the month of his employment at the Boston Beacon, he had never been summoned to the owner’s office. As the elevator operator tugged the cable, carrying the enclosed box and its occupants to the fourth floor, Thomas’s hands began to sweat. He shoved them into his pockets, hoping to remove the moisture.

  The elevator groaned to a stop, and the errand boy slid the iron door open. “Come on,” he said to Thomas in an impatient tone, as if urgency propelled him. The boy’s shaggy hair bounced with his jogging pace as he led Thomas to a pair of double doors at the end of a short, marble-floored hallway. “He’s in there.” The boy spun and trotted to a bench where he seated himself, his hands in his lap and his gaze aimed straight ahead.

  Thomas knocked on the right-hand door. A brusque “Enter!” gave him permission to open the door.

  The hinges made no sound when Thomas pushed the heavy door open. In the center of a spacious room lined with hip-high bookcases and narrow windows that stretched above the cases to the high ceiling, Mr. Severt sat behind a massive maple desk. He bent forward, his thick eyebrows low, his hand busily scribbling on a sheet of yellow paper. Thomas hovered in the doorway until the man set the pen aside and looked up.

  “Ollenburger. Come in. Sit.”

  Thomas lowered himself onto one of the guest chairs, grimacing when the joints creaked with his weight. He resisted the urge to tug at his tight collar. Mr. Severt’s collar had been unfastened, its pointed ends springing out on either side of his face. His jacket hung on the back of his tall chair, and his shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, exposing thick, hairy forearms. Even though Thomas had visited the Severt estate the past two Sundays—Mr. Severt’s lone day off—he’d not seen the man in such an informal state. The sight made him want to avert his gaze.

  Mr. Severt linked his hands together and rested his elbows on the edge of his messy desk. “How long have you been with the Beacon, Ollenburger?”

  “Four weeks now, sir.”

  “Happy here?”

  The man’s clipped manner of speaking, as if he considered Thomas an intrusive stranger, created an unsettled feeling in Thomas’s gut. Given the time they’d spent chatting over his cook’s elaborate breakfasts in his ostentatious dining room, it seemed odd he would be so stiff and cold now. Maybe, when in his office, he saved his words for his articles.

  Thomas cleared his throat and replied, “Yes, sir, I’m quite satisfied with my employment.”

  Mr. Severt grunted, and fresh sweat broke out across Thomas’s back. Had he said something displeasing? Suddenly his boss thumped his hands onto the desktop, scattering papers. “Satisfied? In proofreading? Have you no other aspirations?”

  Thomas swallowed. “Well, of course, sir, I hope to eventually move into a higher position, but—”

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nbsp; “Good to hear that.” The man relaxed into his high-backed chair, his piercing gaze pinned to Thomas’s face. “I must say, I haven’t regretted Daphne coercing me into putting you on staff.” He released an indulgent chortle, shaking his head. “She’s been able to keep every penny of her allowance.”

  Thomas blinked. Daphne had coerced her father into hiring him? And what did her allowance have to do with anything?

  “Not a one of the advertisements you’ve proofed has printed with an error. And the occasional rephrasing has met my approval every time. You seem to have a keen eye and a way with words—a worthy combination in the newspaper business.”

  Still reeling from the comments about Daphne, Thomas didn’t reply.

  “Harry has spoken well of you, and what I’ve observed during your visits to our home has substantiated all of Harry’s claims.”

  His mouth dry, Thomas remained silent. Unease prickled the hairs on the back of his neck as he thought about the man observing him, forming opinions, while Thomas was unaware of the scrutiny.

  “I believe I’m wasting your talents as an advertising proofreader. I’d like to offer you a position as editorial copy editor. The position means a considerable pay raise and a private office on the third floor. Better than the basement, hmm?”

  Despite his earlier confusion, Thomas couldn’t stop a grin from growing. Even without the pay raise, the change appealed to him—if for no other reason than the view. All he could see from the tiny window in the office he now occupied was people’s feet passing by and an occasional pigeon tapping at the glass. He glanced toward the windows in Severt’s office. A touch of blue sky over rooftops and—he stifled a chuckle—roosting pigeons. Some things would be the same.

  “So . . . are you interested?”

  Thomas swallowed. “I’d be foolish to say no, sir.”

  “Indeed.” He rose abruptly, pushing his sleeves to his wrists and deftly clipping gold cufflinks into place. Thomas looked out the window as the man hooked his collar, huffing with the effort. Then Severt snatched up his coat, jammed his arms into it, and buttoned it across his broad middle. Rounding the desk with a brisk pace, he ordered, “Follow me.”