Happy tears filled Belinda’s eyes at her sister’s confident, enthusiastic tone. She gave Malinda a hug and offered a husky, “Congratulations, Malinda. I’m proud of you.” Another thought followed as Peter turned the wagon back toward Hillsboro: What would she do now that she didn’t need to take care of Malinda?
Pardue tossed Thomas’s article onto the desk, hooked his elbow over the ladder back of the wooden chair that usually sat in the corner of Thomas’s small office, and offered a pleased grin. “You’re comin’ along, Ollenburger. I marked a few word choice changes, and the third paragraph slanted toward your own opinion about the ease of using the current voting ballot, but for the most part . . . yup, you’re comin’ along.”
Thomas decided “coming along” was a significant step up from Pardue’s normally lengthy list of suggested improvements. He picked up the article and glanced over the penciled changes. Much fewer than he expected. Satisfied, he nodded. He looked forward to the day when Pardue would simply hand him back his work with no suggestions for improvement, but for today, seeing only a half dozen scrawled comments let him know he was making progress toward becoming a full-fledged reporter.
Riffling the edge of the page with his thumb, he rocked in his chair and stared thoughtfully across the desk into Pardue’s whisker-dusted face. Would this be a good time to show his mentor the article that had kept him up late the past several nights? He valued Pardue’s opinion, and he knew the man would be able to offer advice on making the article the strongest it could be. Besides that, if the article were going to make it into the paper in time to impact any voters, it needed to happen now. Only four more issues and Election Day would be upon them.
Pardue must have sensed Thomas’s thoughts, because he leaned forward and said, “You have something weighing on your mind, boy?”
“Well . . .”
“Some writin’, maybe?”
Thomas pulled his lips to the side, one eyebrow raised high.
Pardue laughed and stretched out his bony hand. “Hand it over.”
For a moment, Thomas hesitated. “Can . . . can we keep it between the two of us?”
Pardue’s brows raised in obvious surprise. He smoothed his hand over his balding scalp before giving a brief, serious nod. “What are you up to?”
Without answering, Thomas slid open his desk drawer and removed the pad of paper he carried back and forth from his cottage to the newspaper office. He peeled back the top layers, exposing the article titled simply, “Watson.” For a moment he bit down on the inside of his cheek, wondering at the wisdom of showing the article to Pardue. Although they’d spent part of every day for the past week and a half together, and although Thomas trailed the man as he interviewed people about the campaign, he had yet to ascertain Pardue’s political stance.
“Well, what is it?”
The impatient bite in Pardue’s tone forced Thomas to act. He thrust his arm forward, shoving the pad across the desk. The man snatched it up, flopped the pad around, and began to read.
Thomas sat, unmoving, and watched Pardue’s eyes rove from left to right all the way from the top to the bottom of the page. Pardue’s forehead crinkled and his lips poked out in the now-familiar expression of deep concentration. Without breaking pace he snapped the page over the top of the pad and continued until he reached the end of the second page—the end of Thomas’s editorial on why Watson would not be an appropriate choice for the United States’ next president. He shot Thomas a quick, unreadable look, and then he flipped the first page back and read the entire article a second time.
Thomas battled squirming while he waited. The man’s expression revealed nothing of his thoughts, no matter how hard Thomas peered into his face. But when he finished, he grimaced. Thomas’s stomach turned over in trepidation.
Pardue slapped the pad onto Thomas’s desk with a mighty smack. “You’ve been digging pretty deep, haven’t you?”
Unable to determine by his tone whether he approved or disapproved of Thomas’s editorial, Thomas shrugged in response.
“I gotta tell you, you organized that well. Good balance of facts and subsequent opinion based on the facts. There’s enough passion in the lines to light a fire under the most apathetic reader.” The man whistled through his teeth. “But if you’re thinking Severt will let you publish that in his newspaper . . . you better think again.”
Thomas shot forward, propping his elbows on the desk. “He’s printed other editorials about the various presidential hopefuls. Why wouldn’t he let this one go in, too?”
Pardue shook his head, his eyes sympathetic but his expression firm. “You know as well as I do, boy, that Severt wants to see Watson in office. He’ll never allow one negative word about his man. Not in his paper.”
Thomas blew out his breath in frustration. “But that’s not good reporting. Withholding truth just because you don’t like the truth?”
Pardue’s skinny shoulders rose and fell in an unconcerned shrug. “Happens all the time. Editor of his own newspaper gets to decide what goes in and what stays out.”
“But”—Thomas’s voice rose with fervor—“a paper should be inclusive, not exclusive when it comes to reporting information of merit.”
Pardue grinned. “You got strong feelings on this.”
“Yes, I do.” Thomas flopped back in his chair again, the springs protesting the force of his movement.
“Well, boy . . .” Pardue unfolded his long frame from the chair and peered down his nose at Thomas. “There’s only one surefire way to get that article into print, far as I can see.”
Thomas sat up attentively. “How?”
Pardue winked. “Start your own newspaper.” He turned and ambled out of the room.
29
DAPHNE READ THE BIBLE’S final words aloud: “ ‘He which testifieth these things saith, Surely I come quickly. Amen.
Even so, come, Lord Jesus. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen.’ ”
With a sigh, she closed the book, rested both palms on the worn black cover, and let her eyes drift shut. She whispered, “ ‘The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all . . .’ ” She swallowed the lump that filled her throat, realizing after all she had learned about Jesus Christ, she did want Him to be with her.
Popping her eyes open, she rose from the chaise. Reverently she placed the Bible on the brocade seat and crossed to the window. Peering across the grounds, now rosy from the setting sun, she considered the reason for her absorption in the Scriptures. She sought an answer to one question: Why did Thomas put God first? And in the reading, she believed she’d found the answer: Because God had put mankind first.
God, in His infinite love, had allowed His Son to become the perfect sacrifice for sin. For her sin, even. The idea that someone would die to take her place created a spiral of longing that Daphne couldn’t contain. Tears sprang into her eyes, and she pressed her open palms to the window, her gaze on the wisp of purple clouds in the magenta sky. “I want to believe You love me enough to give Yourself up for me.”
Had anyone ever loved Daphne that much? So much that they set aside their own needs in deference to hers? No, no one. But according to the book she’d just read, God had done exactly that.
Thomas, apparently, had been taught from the Bible since boyhood. As she’d read, often she had thought, Yes, I’ve seen Thomas behave in that very manner, or I’ve heard Thomas speak similar words of admonition. The things she admired most about him—his gentleness, his honesty, his work ethic—were very much like the character of Jesus.
Her heart pounded, and she spun back to the Bible, flipping pages to locate one of her favorite parts. She read aloud, “ ‘Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him.’ ” Pressing trembling fingers to her lips, she rasped, “Oh, dear Jesus, I do want You to come in, but I don’t know how to open the door—”
“Daphne?”
With a start, she spun toward the library doors.
Harry stood in the opening. “I realize the hour is growing late, but I’m going to drive in to town and see if there are any things I can do at headquarters. Would you like to ride in with me?”
If Harry transported her to town, perhaps she could hail a cab to Thomas’s cottage and ask him the question that plagued her heart: How do I invite Jesus into my life?
Harry’s face crumpled into a worried scowl. “Daph? Are you all right?”
She snatched up the Bible and flew across the glossy wood floor to her brother. “I’d like to go. But I need to change my clothes. Can you wait?”
He glanced down the length of her rumpled gown and gave a nod. “Yes, but hurry.”
She scurried past him and called over her shoulder, “I shan’t be more than five minutes.”
She was ready in four by choosing the first frock her hand fell upon when she reached, uncaring, into the overstuffed wardrobe. In her reticule, she carried a hairbrush that she would use on the way to town, fashioning her hair into a simple tail at the nape of her neck. It mattered not what she looked like. She nearly laughed at the thought—when had she ever been so unmindful of her appearance? Never before. Yet suddenly dressing the outward seemed insignificant when compared to satisfying the yearnings of her heart.
Eagerness sent her scooting to the edge of the barouche’s backseat. She tapped Harry’s shoulder and encouraged, “Quickly, Harry!”
He shot her a brief scowl, but he flipped the reins and called out, “Giddap!” The horse obediently broke into a trot.
When the carriage rolled onto the streets of Boston, Harry slowed the horse to match the speed of other traffic. Daphne fidgeted in the seat, impatience making her edgy, but she refrained from complaining.
Harry drew the carriage to a stop outside of headquarters and Daphne scrambled out, unaided. Without a word to her brother, she marched to the corner and peered up and down the street, seeking a cab.
Still beside the carriage, Harry called, “Daphne, what are you doing?”
“Taking a cab to Thomas’s.”
Harry dropped his head back, released a sigh, and then strode to her side. He took her elbow and squeezed gently. “Daphne, Thomas has made himself clear. He no longer wants a relationship with you.”
She peered into her brother’s face, her eyes wide. “I’m not going to see him about a relationship with him, but a relationship with—” She snapped her mouth shut.
A tug on her arm demanded she finish the sentence.
Stubbornly, she refused to answer. She wanted to talk to Thomas— to someone who would understand her deep longing. At best, Harry would disdain it; at worst, he would contact Father to say she’d lost her mind.
“Daph?”
“I—” She pulled her arm loose. “I need to see him about a personal matter. I’ll be back here well before you’re ready to return home.” Just then a cab rolled near, and Daphne stepped to the curb, waving her hand.
“Daphne, I don’t think—”
She raced back and planted a quick kiss on her brother’s cheek. “I’ll be fine.” She scampered to the cab and gave the driver Thomas’s address. Harry stood in place, looking worried as the cab pulled away. Daphne would explain later. But first she must talk to Thomas.
Thomas took a sip of the steaming tea and leaned his chair back on two legs to rock gently and peer at the starry sky. He angled a sideways glance at Clarence, who sat stiffly upright on the second dining room chair Thomas had carried to the front yard so they could enjoy the unseasonably warm early November evening. In the deep shadows, it was difficult to make out the dark-skinned man’s expression, but Thomas sensed contentment.
“You sure you don’t want a mug of tea?” Thomas asked, taking a noisy slurp of the richly spiced brew. He’d enjoyed a cup of hot, sweet tea ever since Summer had given him a cup when he was a little boy. “I have plenty of hot water.”
“Oh no, Mister Thomas.” Clarence shook his salt-and-pepper head, his palms flat on his thighs. “I like just sittin’ here takin’ in the night air.” A flash of white teeth showed his smile. “Clear sky, calm breeze, and good company. A man cain’t ask for much more than that.”
Thomas grinned in response, then continued rocking. The men sat in companionable silence. Although Clarence was the first en Näaja—black man—Thomas had known, he was as comfortable with the older man as with any of his school friends in Boston or his family back home. He couldn’t understand the opinion some held of colored folk. To his way of thinking, there was no justifying that sort of thinking. Clarence and Mildred were two of the finest people he’d ever known. Hardworking, loyal to a fault, never speaking an ill word of anyone. How could Watson—or anyone, for that matter—consider Clarence a lesser man?
Five more days until the presidential election—the thought destroyed the peaceful contentment of moments ago. Over dinner conversation with Nadine, he’d expressed his concern of the changes their country would see were Watson elected, but with a dismissive wave of her hand, Nadine stated firmly that Thomas failed to give the American people enough credit for their collective wisdom. “I predict Roosevelt will be reelected,” she’d said, “although Parker may give him more of a run than many of my stalwart Republican friends would believe.” Nadine’s confident tone had eased some of Thomas’s worry.
Nadine’s awareness of the political figures and events still surprised Thomas. Having grown up largely ignorant of political happenings, he thought it odd that someone who didn’t have the right to vote would be so informed.
He brought his chair down sharply on all four legs. “Clarence, are you planning to vote next Tuesday?”
Clarence rubbed a finger beneath his nose and shook his head slowly. “Oh now, Mister Thomas, you know we coloreds were given the right. I joined the Loyal League way back in ’67, and I been registered to vote ever since, but . . . still pretty hard, even here in the North, for most of us to put our mark on a ballot.” His calm, accepting voice contradicted the unfairness of his statement.
Thomas set his mug on the ground beside his chair. “But that’s not right, Clarence! If you have the right to vote, you should be able to exercise it.”
A slow nod acknowledged Thomas’s words. Then Clarence fixed Thomas with an interested gaze. “Is you planning to vote, Mister Thomas?”
Although it went against his upbringing, a rush of eagerness rose from Thomas’s middle. “I want to, but I can’t. I won’t be twenty-one until January.”
“Ah.” For long moments they sat in silence, then Clarence’s thoughtful voice carried to Thomas’s ear on a whisper. “So we colored folk ain’t the only ones with restrictions.”
Restrictions . . . Thomas considered that word and the injustice of it. A United States citizen should have the opportunity to take part in elections. After all, the decisions made by the leadership of persons put into office affected all citizens. Things needed to change, and a desire to be a part of changing the rules that kept good men like Clarence from voting created a prompting that he couldn’t ignore.
He had an idea of how to help bring about those changes, too. Dean Pardue’s parting comment earlier that evening replayed inside his head, building a bold plan in his mind. He needed to pray about it, but already he believed strongly God had planted a seed that was meant to bear fruit.
Clarence yawned and pressed his hands to his knees, pushing himself to his feet. “Well, I reckon I’ve stayed long enough. I should probably be gettin’ Missus Nadine’s carriage back home ’fore she thinks I got lost somewheres.”
Thomas laughed and rose. “Thank you for the ride back and for staying awhile. I don’t get many visitors.” His last visitor had been Harry. The memory of saying good-bye to his friend that day left behind lingering sorrow.
At that moment, a hansom cab pulled to a stop at the curb in the circle of light from the iron streetlamp. Clarence tipped his head toward the skirted passenger emerging from the back of the small vehicle. “Looks to me like maybe you got a visitor now.”
Daphne? He clasped the older man’s hand and whispered, “Can you stay a little longer?”
Clarence nodded, understanding in his velvety eyes.
Daphne approached as if propelled by a stout wind, her hands outstretched to Thomas. He had no choice but to take them. Her beaming smile doubled his pulse. “Thomas, I’m so glad you’re here.” Then her chin jerked sideways as she apparently noticed Clarence for the first time. Her smile faded. Releasing Thomas, she took an awkward backward step. “Oh. I didn’t realize . . .”
Clarence backed slowly toward the cottage. “I think I’ll get me that mug o’ tea now. Can I fetch one for you, too, Miss Daphne?”
Daphne turned toward Clarence, her chin angled high. “That’s very kind, but no thank you.”
With a nod, Clarence headed into the house. Daphne stared after him, her hands clasped at her waist. Thomas waited for her to speak again, but when she remained silent, he cleared his throat. “Would you care to sit down?”
Her gaze jerked to meet his, and her fine brows pulled together. For a moment he thought she would refuse, but then she offered a nod. He guided her to the chairs he and Clarence had vacated only moments before, and they sat. But she still didn’t speak.
Thomas sneaked glances at her. Her race across the grass and her bright smile had indicated an eagerness to be with him. But now her taciturn expression and stiff posture made clear her discomfort. Females and their ever-changing emotions—how could any man understand them?
He supposed the quiet, reticent Daphne was better for his heart than the eager, warm one, but he still found himself wishing she would throw off the reserved cloak and give him another dazzling smile.
At long last, she turned to face him. “Thomas, I—”
Clarence ambled back out, a mug of tea held between his large palms.
Daphne’s back stiffened and she rose abruptly. “I must return to headquarters. Harry is surely ready to return home by now.” She pressed a finger to her chin, peering apprehensively into Thomas’s face. “W-will you walk me to a corner where I might summon a cab?”
Where the Heart Leads Page 24