He sped up. Maybe he shouldn’t bother subjecting himself to his boss’s moods anymore and just quit, for how could he handle seeing David married to Marianne now? Only nineteen days had passed since she’d stopped in at the office, and he was about to leap out of his skin wondering what she was doing, how she was faring. Never mind that he’d hoped she’d stop seeking him out.
“Hey! Watch out!”
Down the street, a woman in a drab, brown dress carrying no fewer than five plump paper bags stopped short as an ice wagon turned out of the Liscombe gate. With her dark hair and high cheekbones reddened by the nippy morning, she looked just like Marianne.
Great. Not only was he still daydreaming about a woman he’d told himself not to think about anymore, he was imagining her, too.
She stood near the gate, waiting for someone to get out of her way, when she looked back toward the second-story windows above him.
Marianne didn’t have a twin, but goodness, the woman looked just like her.
But surely Marianne owned no dress like that, nor would she be in this area of town without a driver. Definitely not carrying an armload of things she’d have handed to a servant.
The woman slipped past the mill gate and headed into work, but her grace, her poise, the way she moved . . . he’d recognize her walk whether she wore rags or silk. What on earth was Marianne doing at the mill?
He weaved his way through the crowded sidewalk and nearly ran across the street to keep from losing sight of her. “Marianne!”
She stopped for a second and looked the opposite way, but after a short hesitation she continued on.
“Excuse me.” He dodged a group of women.
A delivery truck rattled out of Liscombe’s big iron gate. The second it passed, Calvin jogged across the entryway, straight for the prettiest woman heading to work, even if her hair was off-kilter in the back. “Marianne!”
She stopped and spied him this time. The paper packages slid in her arms, stealing her attention.
“What are you doing?” he called, despite being winded. Evidently he needed to get out of his office chair more often.
She readjusted her packages and continued in the direction she’d been going. “I’m going to be late for work.”
That stopped him. “Work?”
The Lister heiress would never need to work.
“Yes, at the mill.”
“At the mill?” Perhaps he’d daydreamed so much he’d slipped into one, for nothing she was saying or wearing made sense.
She rolled her eyes at him, but the soft smile she reserved for teasing him softened the gesture. “You told me I wouldn’t be able to endure my life if I married you, that I was too spoiled or fragile to work someplace like the mill, so I decided to test that out for myself. So far, I’m alive, whole, and not crying myself to sleep. What do you think?” She stopped and smiled so brightly, he wasn’t sure if he’d missed something she’d said.
“What do I think about what?” Did this mean she hadn’t given up on marrying him?
Stupid heart. No reason to start beating so hard. This bright, young, wealthy woman wouldn’t go through with trading her prestigious last name for his.
She stepped closer, causing his heart to ramp up its chaotic motions. “I meant, does surviving two weeks of mill work prove to you I’m not a flibbertigibbet?”
Oh, he most certainly knew she was a woman to be reckoned with.
“No?” she asked. “Then tell me what else I need to do to prove my love is true, and I’ll do it.”
His body ached to swoop her up and test out that love with a kiss right now, which would cause scandal, and then he would have to marry her. Which suddenly didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
He stepped back and rubbed his temples, forcing his brain to focus on something other than his desire to take her in his arms. “What are you doing with those paper bags?”
Her beaming expression dimmed, making it even harder not to gather her up and try putting the smile back on her face.
“These are for the Moore sisters.” She repositioned the top bag that teetered atop her stack.
Why had he stood there like a dolt and not taken them for her? He took the top three. “Who are the Moore sisters?”
“Five young ladies who work with me, from age ten to eighteen. They have so little to eat, I couldn’t possibly sit across from them and watch five girls share one meal while I have more than enough for myself.”
His heart ached for her, in more ways than one. She might be able to do without, but she’d not be able to endure watching others struggle.
Her neat little eyebrows quirked. “Why are you shaking your head at me?”
“You only just proved one of the many reasons you can’t marry me.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand how helping people could possibly be a reason for disqualifying me as good wife material.”
If marrying her could forever banish that hurt expression, he’d wed her in a heartbeat—but a wedding was only a solitary moment in time. “Oh, I’m certain you’ll make an absolutely wonderful wife. You’re the most generous person I know—”
“Which means . . . ?” That hopeful look was back on her face.
She had to start hating him sooner or later for all the times he kept wiping that hope away. “Which means, if you marry me, your ability to do charity goes out the window.” And if there was one woman who couldn’t keep from helping when she saw a need, it was Marianne.
“It does not.” Her face scrunched like a toddler being told no. “You’re charitable. Last month you spent hours reshingling a widow’s roof.”
He couldn’t help but smile a bit at how adorable she looked. “Only because your parents and the deacon supplied the material.”
She lifted her brows as if she’d won a point. “Which doesn’t negate that you’ve done charity work. So why couldn’t your wife?”
“Don’t you see?” He clenched his hands to keep from touching her, giving in. “Your heart is so generous you’d burst at having to see needs go unmet. My budget for giving is small. Mostly all I have is time. And since marriage generally leads to children, children who won’t have nannies or fat bank accounts to see to their needs, our time and money would soon be spent feeding and caring for them.”
Her eyes warmed. “And how many children do you see us having?”
He stepped back and cleared his throat. “We shouldn’t have any children when there are plenty in need already.” There were countless children unloved, ignored, and forced to work for no real reward. He knew that better than most. He and his siblings had been farmed out to extended relatives after their father couldn’t keep them together any longer. And yet just the thought of her having his child . . . He shook himself and pointed to her lunch sacks. “How would you feel knowing that marrying me would keep you from helping the Moores? I can’t afford to feed five strangers every day.”
She put her hands on her hips, her expression growing perturbed. “That wouldn’t keep my parents from helping. They won’t even bat an eyelash over these measly expenditures.”
He didn’t exactly want to get on her bad side, but if it would turn her from him so she could continue enjoying the life God had blessed her with, then perhaps that was a good thing. “Right, you’re helping the Moores with your parents’ money—not mine. If you marry a rich man, you’re in no danger of impoverishing yourself to the point you’ll be the one in need of charity—”
“And if I don’t want to marry a rich man, but the poor man I love?” Her voice was suffused with irritation and brokenness.
His resolve to keep from causing scandal and kissing her for all she was worth was crumbling with each second he stood there watching determination, utter longing, and fleeting hope fill her eyes.
He turned to look at the mill, the entrance filling with mostly women and children as they converged inside. He looked back at her lunches. “As my wife, there would be little money available to help the Moores and all the ot
her needs you’d see. You might be able to help some, but you certainly couldn’t help all. I don’t think you could handle that.”
Her jaw worked, and she stared at the bags in her hands.
As much as he knew she had to give up this romantic notion of shucking wealth for love, watching her come to terms with it hurt. But she’d rebound. She’d be cherished by whichever man—
“Here.” She shoved all but one of the remaining lunches into his arms, her expression grim, her voice warbling. “You’re right. I’ll have to restrict my charity to what would be within your means.” She clenched her own lunch with whitened knuckles.
Well, she could help the Moores for a while if she married him, but if the Lord blessed them with child upon child . . . how could he guarantee his children wouldn’t end up in the same predicament he and his siblings had been in?
He couldn’t. And that was why he’d determined never to have any.
God didn’t always keep people safe. He allowed people to fracture, to implode, to hurt. Marianne believed she could be content in a marriage to him, but his own mother hadn’t been able to stand the poverty they’d fallen into and had left him, his five siblings, and his father to face the worst time in their lives alone. And though he knew his father had loved him, without their mother’s help, he’d had to abandon them, too.
His aunt and uncle had taken him in and seen to his needs, but not a week went by without one of them reminding him of how he ought to be thankful they’d taken on the burden that he was.
“Are you all right?” Marianne looked up at him.
He shook his head and wiped away the deep frown that had taken over his face. “If you stay with your parents or marry a man blessed with a bank account that can withstand disaster, you’ll be far better off than with me. I have enough to survive the good times, but if I hit a rough spot, it’ll be nothing like your father’s worst year. With me, you couldn’t give according to your heart’s desire. You’d have no servants to attend you—”
“I understand.” She shook her head as if she actually did.
His heart heaved with finality, and he tried not to crush the lunch bags in his arms.
She threw back her shoulders. “I understand you haven’t seen me live as anything but a wealthy woman and so you can’t be sure I value relationships over dollars, so I’ll continue on and prove it.”
He blinked.
“Since you’re right about us not being able to rely upon anyone else, I’ll search for a place of my own tonight. Where would you suggest I look?”
All right, he knew she was tenacious, but . . . well, certainly she wouldn’t go through with this. Not when she saw what sort of accommodations she could afford. “With what you’re likely making, you’d only be able to manage a shared bunk at a boardinghouse or a small apartment in Southtown Village.”
“I’ll go to Southtown, then. However, I don’t know where that is.”
Exactly. “It’s not anywhere you ought to be, Marianne.” The rows of shacks south of the mill were one of the worst areas of town. “You belong at home.”
“My home is wherever my heart is.” She tilted her chin up. “If you won’t believe me when I say I’ll be content with you, then I aim to convince you with my actions. I’ll work here until then.”
She turned, but he dropped everything in his arms to snatch her by the elbow.
She looked back at him, a quiver ticking her lips.
“I’m not worth it, Marianne.” His own father and mother hadn’t thought him worth this much trouble, so how could she?
“Don’t say that.” A deep sadness filled her eyes, causing moisture to well up in his own.
The mill’s huge clock bell bonged. The crowd around them had already disappeared. And as quick as a puff of smoke, she pulled herself from his grasp and ran faster than a pickpocket who’d swiped a handbag.
On the second ring of the clock, she reached the door, hefted it open, and disappeared inside.
He stared down at the lunches scattered at his feet. One of the things he loved most about Marianne was her generosity. So when she’d shoved those lunches into his hands . . . it was almost as if he’d made her give up what made him love her most.
He stooped to pick up the lunches. Today was not off to a good start whatsoever. He was now late, and his thoughts were a muddle. Whether he ran to the office now or stumbled in later, he likely had no chance at appeasing his boss today.
Setting the last lunch on the top of the pyramid he’d made against his chest, he headed for First Baptist’s large stone building that took up a quarter of a city block. There were often many homeless men tucked into the nooks and crannies of the building, seeking shelter from the wind.
Marianne’s generosity shouldn’t go to waste, so he’d hand out her lunches there.
Her parents were supposed to return in two weeks. Surely she’d give up mill work by then and return to helping others to her heart’s content. But if she moved off their estate, would she be safe?
Of course the staff who’d been loyal to her since she was an infant would either keep her from moving out or stand guard until her parents came back and convinced her to give up her notion of marrying him.
Though he was unlikely ever to be loved by a woman so fine again, there were good men with decent fortunes who could make both her and her parents happy. A union with a man like that would not rob the world of the rare and generous heart of Miss Marianne Lister.
Chapter
6
The lunch bell rang, and Marianne stopped her machines and let herself droop. The whine of belt and gears and the clack, clack, clacking that now invaded her dreams lessened as the machines cringed to a stop. Not that she could hear any better once they ceased, since the workers ate in shifts and plenty of machines still ran.
When her parents returned, how would she keep from rolling her eyes when Mother complained about the honking and backfiring automobiles that now congested the streets?
Of course, if she could convince Calvin to marry her, she might never hear her mother’s complaints again. She swallowed against the misgivings in her throat. She’d told him this morning she’d keep right on working to prove she loved him, but would it be enough? He’d not seemed impressed, but rather determined to talk her out of it.
But he’d been hurt badly once. She’d seen it in his eyes. He’d told her before that his family had broken up during rough times, but she hadn’t realized how hurt he’d been until he told her he wasn’t worth her effort.
The last moving part on her machine stilled, but she made no move to leave. She simply stared at the cotton sliver, now limp and motionless. If her parents never got over their disappointment in her marrying Calvin, could she survive the heartache of being disowned?
However, God didn’t promise anyone tomorrow. If she abandoned her pursuit of the man she loved but then lost her parents to death or some other tragedy, she’d regret letting him go.
But would she regret her parents’ everlasting disapproval more?
Ducking to retrieve her lunch sack from under her machine, she ran her hands along the folded top, wishing Calvin had been wrong about how it would hurt not to be able to help the Moore sisters.
Practicing to become Mrs. Hochstetler might mean getting used to having little, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t give at all.
On the other side of her machines, Mrs. Smith was heading toward the lunch room. Though she was the oldest woman who worked at the mill, she was always cheerful, even if her expression was often pained—most likely from the tightly wound salt-and-pepper bun at the back of her head. Considering her threadbare clothing and meager lunch rations, she didn’t have much. But she was always giving what she had—a mother’s listening ear and heart.
And that was exactly what Marianne needed right now.
Forcing her achy feet to speed up, she cut over to catch Mrs. Smith, who’d passed the last machine in her row. “May I ask you a question?”
The woman�
��s green eyes sparkled above her thin-lipped, wincing smile. “Yes, young lady, of course.”
Marianne fingered her lunch bag. She’d come up with how to tell the Moores about her sudden lack of provisions, but she’d yet to think up a plan for finding suitable, temporary living quarters. If she asked her servants about a place to live, one would likely wire her parents. “I’m looking for a place to stay. I can’t afford much, and I’ve no family to live with me. I was wondering if you might know of a place that’s safe.” Mother would worry and fuss no matter where she lived, but hopefully Mrs. Smith could direct her to a place Mother wouldn’t worry about as much.
Mrs. Smith’s eyes widened in shock. “Oh, if this isn’t a fortuitous day. My roommate, Mrs. Norris, remarried this past weekend, and I’m in need of someone to share my room. If you could stand to live with an old woman, that is.”
Was Mrs. Smith a widow? She’d assumed someone so happy in a place of such drudgery had a loving family to go home to.
Maybe if Calvin met Mrs. Smith his fears would be allayed about money and status being all that could make a woman happy. “I’d enjoy getting to know you better. You’re such a light in this dreary mill.”
“Fiddlesticks.” The woman’s face looked abashed despite her tight expression. “You’ll be the one who’ll brighten my room. It is only one room, though, with two small beds and a washroom down the hall to share with the others on the floor. But the heating is adequate and there’s a breeze off the river that lessens the smells.”
If Mother found out the biggest perks of the place she was living were that she wouldn’t freeze to death and it didn’t smell too badly, Mother would believe her daughter had lost her mind. “And the rent?”
“Two dollars and seventy cents weekly.” Mrs. Smith frowned while they passed a particularly noisy machine, then hollered once they passed, “But dinner and breakfast are provided.”
With needing to supply her own lunch and other necessities, she’d perhaps have eighty dollars saved by the end of the year. That meant only six dollars a month to spend on others or emergency needs of her own.
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