Lydia sidestepped to the sidewalk’s edge and hurried after Mr. Lowe.
He stopped, his hands tense at his side.
Immediately, she slowed and touched a gloved hand to her face. Was she flushed? That might be good. Pink cheeks would heighten her charm. Now if she could manage to keep from sounding winded when she spoke.
He pivoted, pushed his felt hat off his forehead, and stiffened. “Ah, Miss King.”
She fluttered her hands down to her waist and clasped them together. Innocuous small talk should disarm him. “Good afternoon. It’s a rather pleasant day for walking.”
He looked to the sky and frowned. A gray frothy haze hung low in the steel-colored sky. “Hadn’t noticed.”
She could have pinched herself. Looking dull-witted wouldn’t help her cause. “I mean . . . I am pleased that it isn’t raining yet.”
“I hope you get where you’re going before it does.” He looked ready to turn and dart away.
She sidled forward, cutting him off from the direction he’d been headed. “I think walking does wonders for the lungs, don’t you? I take it you believe in exercise since you so often walk about town.”
“Hmmm, that’s the nicest assumption I’ve heard so far. Usually, I hear I’m too stingy to pay the livery man or no one can stand me long enough to drive me home.”
She winced inwardly at how she’d thought so herself. “Well, it truly is unhealthy to sit all day. Mind if I join you?”
“Are you giving me a choice?” His eyes narrowed.
“I won’t be any trouble.” She batted her eyes and hoped her smile didn’t look fake, considering her teeth were dry from prolonged exposure.
He pulled the brim of his hat down to his eyebrows. “I can’t stop you from walking where you please.”
She smiled as if that were the greatest invitation she could ever receive. “Great.”
He turned toe and headed toward the railroad tracks, his mansion not far past them on the southern outskirts, where the town disappeared and the gentle roll of southeast Kansas hills could be seen for miles.
He took one long stride for her every two steps. Didn’t the man know he shouldn’t force a lady to gallop?
When she caught up, she replastered the pleasantness onto her face. “My, you walk uncommonly quick.”
“And you are uncommonly tenacious.” His eyes held no sparkle.
Was that good or bad? “I don’t understand your meaning.”
“My secretary told me you waited for me earlier today—and I apologize you were left alone so long—but I can only assume you are currently walking beside me to try again to needle money out of me.”
“I accept your apology.” Her lips tightened with the effort to keep them in a pleasing curve. “No harm done. As for needling—”
“Ah, and so the puncturing begins.” He walked even faster.
The warmth in her face seeped out, turning her cheeks cold and brittle. She wouldn’t take it anymore. “How can you be so rude to me yet tip your hat to a woman tossing slop in the alley? I don’t believe anyone’s ever treated me as poorly as you.”
He halted.
Her arm brushed his as she blew past. Three steps later, she’d slowed enough to turn without falling on her backside. “I’m only asking for Christian charity and to be heard. There’s nothing wrong with that.” She glared, waiting for his excuses. Then, realizing her scowl couldn’t be attractive, she exhaled sharply and forced her facial muscles to relax.
He could affront her, rail at her, spit at her feet. But she could endure his rudeness for a donation. “If you would just listen, we’ll never have to see each other again.”
His eyes rolled toward the dark heavens, as if he were pleading for the ten thousand angels who hadn’t rescued Christ to condescend to rescue him.
But then his shoulders sagged. “I apologize for not giving you the same courtesy I gave Mrs. Willis.”
“Who?”
“The lady with the pot in the alley.”
He knew the chambermaid’s name? “Apology accepted.” She let her fists slip off her hips. “I know you’re every bit of a gentleman, a man of good fortune, and are as concerned for the poor Mrs. Williamses of this town as I am.”
“Willis.”
“Yes, women like her who often don’t have enough money to buy essentials. With winter only weeks away, the moral society wants to provide blankets for the needy. But sewing a quilt by hand takes a long time. With machines, we could produce more. A Burdick sewing machine is less than sixteen dollars.”
Mr. Lowe stood silently, his gaze pinned to hers. He was listening!
She plowed on, “We’d like to purchase two for the church. Whereas I could only finish about one block a day, I could potentially finish five in the same amount of time. With two machines being employed while the other women quilt, we could potentially finish about eight more quilts a year. Though I suppose we could do more if we tied them. And our other donations would be used to purchase enough material and notions to keep up with our increased production.”
His face hadn’t moved, and yet it somehow turned harder. Maybe his listening wasn’t a good thing.
“I’d hoped you’d be kind enough to pay for the two sewing machines since you’re a well-off member of our church and care about the Mrs. Williamses of the world.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
She cleared her throat. “I mean Mrs. Willistons.” At the almost imperceptible shaking of his head, she backpedaled. “Well, whatever their names . . . those that need blankets.”
Sunrays escaped from behind a storm cloud, and light flickered across his immobile face. He must know he was being stubborn for no good reason. For him, thirty dollars was nothing.
She tilted her head to the side and exercised her eyelids.
“Is that the end of your spiel, Miss King?”
“Yes.” She quit batting her eyelashes and tucked in her lips.
“Wonderful.” He steepled his hands in front of him. “Now that I’ve heard your argument in its entirety, I stand by my initial decision. I wish you luck getting money from someone else.”
Her lungs deflated. “But—”
“The day’s almost over. Surely you don’t want to vex yourself by arguing. I wouldn’t want to ruin your walk on such a fine day.” He shook his head, then rubbed the back of his neck. “I need to be on my way.”
She strangled her skirt with shaky hands. Mrs. Little expected her to give up, which meant she wouldn’t, no matter how appealing the idea. Maybe if she tried to befriend him . . . goodness knows the man couldn’t have any real friends. He never hosted dinners or held a dance, despite the fact it was well-known his entire third floor was a ballroom. “All right, but might I continue walking with you?”
“Seems I can’t stop you.” He took off like the lightning bolts dancing amid the far-off clouds.
After walking two blocks in silence, she chose a neutral topic.
“Have you enjoyed church this past month? I’ve learned much from the sermons in James. It’s my favorite book.”
“They’ve been good.”
Not much of an answer, but at least he hadn’t ignored her. “Will you attend the Bible study starting Wednesday? I hear Mr. Taylor has chosen the topic of Christian Virtues.”
His jaw grew tight. “I believe I’ll stay home and read.”
“What will you read?” The question flew out of her mouth before she’d thought.
If he actually did read, how tedious would this conversation be? He probably read engineering manuals or—
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Aquinas, Augustine, Donne, Bunyan, Edwards. Someone I trust to teach me about virtue, if that’s what I desire to learn.”
“You have all those?” She bit her lip to keep from begging to borrow the whole stack. “I love the few Donne poems I’ve been lucky enough to read.”
“Yes, they’re quite good.” He tucked his hands in his pockets and charged toward the small hill where his man
sion sat. He stopped at his iron entry gate attached to stone pillars, an unnecessary structure being there was no fencing—though it was lovely draped with trumpet flower vines during the summer.
She stopped, saddened she’d just found a topic with which she might have engaged him. But when he opened his gate and stood waiting, she nearly did a cartwheel. Chitchatting had gotten her further than she’d hoped.
However . . .
She looked behind her to see if anyone was watching. Even though this road out of town was never busy and only a few buildings lined it, what might people think if they saw her walking alone with him up to his mansion?
Though if Mrs. Little found out she’d been given such an invitation and not used it to squeeze out three thousand pennies from him . . .
Lydia stepped inside. “I was thinking—”
Without waiting, he quickly turned to eat up the ground with long-legged strides. His driveway snaked along the thick curves of the landscape, but she hadn’t the time to take in the terrain. The pace he set up the incline was grueling, and she’d already started huffing before they’d reached the gate.
At the crest of the hill, he slowed, making her want to break into the Hallelujah Chorus despite being too winded to sing.
He put his hands in his pockets and stared off at the delicate cloud-to-cloud lightning, too far away to be heard.
“The way Donne explores the contradictions in life makes reading his poetry similar to . . . I don’t know.” Mr. Lowe broke off from his hesitant speech and stood silent for a moment. “It’s like the feeling you get when you find something in a Bible passage that gives you insight into yourself or the world. A gem worthy of meditating on, savoring . . .” He reached up to play with his collar. “I’m sorry. That probably made little sense.”
Lydia barely kept herself from clapping. He actually read, really read! Surely he’d listen to her requests with a more sympathetic ear if he discovered she had the same interests. “Do you have a favorite poet?”
“Byron, Coleridge, Poe . . . ” He broke off with a huffed chuckle. “The dark ones apparently.”
“I love Byron. Which is your favorite piece?”
“‘When We Two Parted,’ perhaps.”
“I don’t remember that one.” She frowned. Hopefully she could find something they’d both read before he dismissed her.
“I’ll lend you my Byron, if you wish.” He resumed walking and took the massive porch stairs two at a time.
She raced eagerly after him despite her tight lungs. If only he weren’t half a foot taller than her, her legs might not have been burning to keep up.
He spun in front of his towering double doors and held out his hand. “But, ah . . . remain here if you would.”
The heavily stained door slammed, leaving her alone in the moist cold. She stopped short of kicking his door in frustration. He could have at least let her into his entry hall. But he was a thoughtless man; so she shouldn’t be surprised.
But did thoughtless men read Augustine and Donne?
The house was gargantuan, so his library had to be of remarkable size. She’d already borrowed all the books her old high school teacher owned thrice over, and she hadn’t enough money to buy more than one a month—if that.
She eased toward the door’s glass but stopped shy of hooding her eyes against the glare. Female voices sounded inside, and Lowe’s quick baritone barked a one word reply. She scurried back from the door.
Instead of Mr. Lowe, a woman with soft dark curls framing sharp, serious eyes opened the door. She was likely in her early thirties, like Mr. Lowe, but her black dress and dirty white apron bespoke her position as a servant. The woman stepped onto the porch and held out two books.
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Lowe had a pressing matter arise. He said to give you these and bid you ‘good day.’”
Lydia blinked hard. Maybe she shouldn’t take the books. If he wasn’t willing to help poor people with blankets, should she take his books for her own entertainment? Yet her feet moved toward them as if they had free will. The temptation to borrow something she hadn’t read a dozen times over was too much. She took the stack: a small leather-bound volume of Byron sat atop Mark Twain’s Roughing It.
She forced her eyes off the beautiful poetry cover. “I hope the matter detaining him isn’t serious.”
“He’s always serious.” The woman took a step back, a grim set to her mouth.
“I see.” But she didn’t, not really.
The servant ducked her head dismissively. “Good day, miss.”
And the door shut with a resounding thud.
We hope you’ve enjoyed this special sample of A Heart Most Certain by Melissa Jagears. For more information on this book, please visit www.bethanyhouse.com or your favorite bookstore.
About the Author
Much to her introverted self’s delight, ACFW Carol Award winner Melissa Jagears hardly needs to leave her home to be a homeschool teacher, day-care provider, church financial secretary, and novelist. She doesn’t have to leave her house to be a housekeeper either, but she’s doubtful she meets the minimum qualifications to claim to be one in her official bio. Her passion is to help Christian believers mature in their faith and judge rightly. Find her online at www.melissajagears.com, Facebook, Pinterest, and Goodreads.
Books by Melissa Jagears
Love by the Letter: A Novella
A Bride for Keeps
A Bride in Store
A Bride at Last
Resources: bethanyhouse.com/AnOpenBook
Website: www.bethanyhouse.com
Facebook: Bethany House
Engaging the Competition Page 10