“No, no, sweet girl.” He patted her arm. “I only meant that life is brief. You are wonderful with the children. I can’t imagine what I would have done these past few years without you. Your mother always said you were a natural storyteller and a gifted writer. As a father, I want to see you use your God-given talents. And I hope to see it in my lifetime, however long or short that might be.”
Though his words were meant to encourage, the sting of guilt was rising in her throat. “I am using my talent. I write every day.”
He lifted a hand, halting her defense. “You are hiding your light under a bushel. If God gave you a message to share through story, share it.”
“I feel ill even thinking of others reading my work.”
He pressed his lips together and nodded once as if he understood more about her than she did. “Graveyards are full of unshared talent. Imagine what a blessing it would be to the people of this village to have a fresh story to read, for the generations to come to have more stories to study, for that one person who needs your words someday. Write the story with the message God gave you. Trust Him with the rest.”
He stood and slid his chair beneath the table’s edge. As he passed behind her, he kissed the top of her head. “Goodnight, sweet Hannah.”
The floorboards creaked softly as he stepped into his bedroom and closed the door. Hannah lowered her hands to her lap. She’d never imagined others being blessed by reading her story, only her being embarrassed—nay, terrified—to think of anyone but Olivia knowing what scenes played out in her imagination.
Wasn’t a mind created to be private? Couldn’t a writer express herself for the sake of expression and not for exposure?
Despite her objections, her father’s words took root. Many times she’d wished for a new book to read, a new story to get lost in after her mother’s death—not immediately after but months later when the neighbors had stopped checking in and everyone else’s grief had subsided.
She didn’t know of any other writers in the village. If she was the only one and God had truly given her a gift that should be shared, she wouldn’t want to be guilty of taking her talent to the grave.
But the story wasn’t finished, not in its present state. She had a few ideas of where it needed to be changed. Still, something was lacking. Even if she wrote a story that would be a light for someone someday, she needed inspiration and time… and paper.
Her father wanted to read the story in his lifetime and had mentioned his fiftieth birthday. What if she finished the story and gave him a copy on his birthday? No, that would be impossible. The story needed more work than she could do in four months, especially with the way her inspiration had stalled.
Her father was the only person alive who knew about her story but hadn’t read it. She hadn’t allowed him. Why not? He could be trusted. He wouldn’t mock her if he didn’t like the story.
If he wanted to read her story, she would grant him permission… more than permission. Somehow, someway, she would finish it in time to give him a copy on his birthday.
“Write the story with the message God gave you,” she repeated her father’s words on a whisper. “Trust Him with the rest.”
Chapter Four
Henry dropped a wrapped biscuit into his bag then looped the satchel’s strap over his shoulder as he left home for the print shop. Bright morning rays pierced between the gray leaf trees on his parents’ property. A warm wind blew in from the nearby ocean, filling the late spring air with its salty scent.
He passed beneath the clothesline where his mother was already hanging the laundry. “Goodbye, Mother.”
“Will you be home for supper this evening?” Priscilla Roberts asked him. Strands of brown and gray escaped her loose bun of hair and danced in the breeze.
He kept walking but glanced at her over his shoulder. “Yes. Then we have an elders’ meeting tonight.”
“A very important meeting, I hear.” She smiled, warming his heart. “I’m boiling crab for supper. Your favorite.”
In twenty-six years, his mother had never failed to prepare her children’s choice meal to mark special occasions. If the elders approved his father’s request to make printing a village-supported trade, tonight’s meeting would not be simply a special occasion, it would be a historic event. The elders had never agreed on a village matter the same night it was presented.
He dodged a row of hanging socks at the end of the clothesline. “I look forward to dinner.”
As he walked between the southern side of his family’s house and the barn, weeds brushed his trouser cuffs. Simon needed to cut the grass soon, or their father. Regardless, it wouldn’t be his chore anymore if he were going to work full time at the press. The thought brought a sense of relief, like when a sore throat finally went away.
Domestic chores squeezed the breath out of a thinking man. If he owned the place, he might feel differently. The village elders took pride in keeping their farms pleasant and productive, as the women did their homes, which explained the sighs and complaints of his sisters when they had come of age; it wasn’t their kitchen, so they tired of cleaning it. Just as this wasn’t his yard, so he tired of mowing it.
As a contented bachelor with a village-supported occupation, he would never have to worry about such things. His days would be spent printing and binding books; the men in the village would build him a cabin or add living quarters to the print shop. He would select what he needed from the weekly market, barter private orders of books for small luxuries, and go fishing in between.
The status quo of farming and family life would never have a hold on him. He’d never lose another finger raising a barn again.
He ambled along the road into the village, passing house after house that he’d helped build when they settled the area years ago. Since then, Gabe McIntosh and his father had built bigger homes for all the families. Tradesmen like his father had turned old cabins into workshops. Reverend Colburn had established a church, and Olivia Owens—now Olivia McIntosh—had started a school. And all the settlers came together every Saturday morning on the sandy lot next to the school to trade their produce and wares. Soon, he’d have a batch of six leather-bound copies of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, two for the library and four to trade.
Stepping inside the dark print shop, he propped the door open to receive as much morning sunlight as possible. The scents of ink and copper greeted him. He lowered his satchel to the floor between the press and the far wall then paused by the window.
Next door, the stone library stood cold and empty, begging to be filled with books. It would be his duty if all went well at the elders’ meeting tonight.
A light knock on the open door disrupted his quiet. Hannah Vestal, the neighbor girl from the property north of his parents’ farm, dithered in the doorway. She held a basket full of candles. “Excuse me, will Mr. Roberts be here soon?”
“My father is working at home today.”
“Oh.” Her gaze lowered to the candles. “I was hoping to trade these for paper?”
Henry studied her for a moment, struck by the oddity of seeing Hannah Vestal somewhere other than church. The years of seclusion since her mother’s death made her a mystery to him. She must be a slave to her siblings’ upbringing. Though demure in appearance, something about her high cheekbones and dark lashes veiled innate nobility, shirking the impression of servitude.
The eldest of the Vestal children had grown into an attractive woman. Still, Henry would always see her as the mournful teen weeping over her mother’s fresh grave years ago. He had left Mrs. Vestal’s funeral and gone home to weep that day too, grieving the loss as everyone in the settlement had. The only way he’d overcome it was by sketching Mrs. Vestal’s portrait, not the way she had looked in those final months of life, but the way she looked when the group lived in Virginia. She’d been strong, majestic almost, with the same high cheekbones as the woman standing before him now.
Remembering the pain, his heart stirred with an overwhelming desire to he
lp Hannah in any way he could. He waved his good hand at the rolls of paper beside a cut table at the back of the shop. “I have plenty of paper and happen to need candles.”
She didn’t immediately respond. Had she not heard him or not understood his reply? He rounded the press and stopped at the worktable. “On cloudy days, it’s almost too dark in here to work.”
A slow smile graced her rosy lips. “Excellent, or rather, not that your workshop is dim, but I mean it is excellent that you should need candles.” Her cheeks flushed, matching her pink lips. “For me, anyway, because I have two dozen here to trade for paper.”
He reached into the basket and drew out a pair of tapers, which were still attached at the wick. “That’s a lot of candles to trade for paper. I’ll take four. Save the rest to trade at the market.”
Her smile vanished. She took a half step closer and whispered. “I need quite a lot of paper.”
The secretive manner of her voice over something as trivial as trading candles for paper almost made him laugh. He held it back not wanting to mock such a delicate creature. Leaning down to whisper too, he asked. “How much paper?”
“Two hundred sheets.”
“You’re right. That is quite a lot.” He stood straight and grinned at her. “Why are we whispering?”
The light shining through the doorway highlighted the golden flecks in her brown eyes. She leveled her glowing gaze on him, bucking all notion of fragility. “I prefer to keep my business affairs private. If you aren’t accustomed to trading discretely, I can trade with your father. He never questions me.”
He laced his voice with sarcasm. “Pardon my insensitivity. The secrecy you employ over a trade for paper piqued my curiosity.”
The punch of his humor seemed as lost on her as it was on any woman. She bowed her regal neck a degree as if deigning to accept his apology. “No harm done.”
Perhaps she was being sarcastic too. If he knew her more, he’d be able to read her intentions or at least be able to provoke her and then read her reaction. Considering her simple life, it seemed more likely she was taking him at his word. A twinge of guilt tightened his chest.
What was it about women that always put him on guard? He gave her unimposing stature a quick study. She was too small to be threatening, so his defensiveness must be unwarranted. He cleared the cynicism from his throat. “I take great care in stocking and cutting my paper and like to be assured it will go to good use.” He returned the taper candles to her basket and rested both palms on the worktable. “Why do you need so much paper?”
Her gaze darted around the print shop. “I’d rather… I’d rather not say.”
The noblewoman was gone and the homebody was back. Had he flustered her by being male or did she need the paper for a truly private endeavor? Either way, there was something amusing about pressing her further. “Did your sisters lose their school slates?”
“No.”
“Are you papering your walls?”
She squared her shoulders and hiked the basket up to her chest. “Will you trade with me or not?”
“You don’t have enough candles to trade for two hundred sheets of paper.”
She plunked her basket on the press table, her assertiveness ignited. “How much paper will you give me for all of these?”
The force in her voice fueled his urge to vex her for the pleasure of watching her stir. However, knowing the woman before him encased a mournful girl who needed something he had to offer, he decided against jesting and drew several candles out of the basket.
The smooth candles were solid with tightly woven wicks, and he needed them. He removed all but four of the candles, unable to take everything she had. “I will accept these for twenty sheets of paper.”
“But I need two hundred sheets.”
She didn’t need that much paper. Something was amiss. He pointed at the tall rolls of paper filling a wide bin beside the cut table in the back corner of the room. “Each of those rolls contains only twelve sheets of paper.” When her eyes widened, he asked, “Are you certain you require two hundred sheets?”
“Oh, no.” A burst of laughter broke her regality. She pressed her hand to her middle. “I’m sorry. No wonder you looked confused. I need two hundred pages—as in sheets of writing paper.” She drew a rectangle in the air. “About this size.”
Delighted by her laughter, his eyes refused to look away as he pulled a paper roll from the bin and opened it on the cut table. Little lines curved around her mouth when she laughed, almost like dimples but more stately.
The smile lines faded along with her laughter, and he wanted to see them again. The yearning pressed him to say something humorous, anything to make her laugh again, but his mind went as blank as the paper he was unrolling. He stood open-jawed as if every ounce of his intelligence had been doused by her song-like laughter.
His half-hand lost what little strength it had, and he fumbled with the paper roll. For a moment time seemed to freeze. Her gaze darted to his scars, and pity changed her expression. He would rather receive disgust than pity. Wanting neither from her, he fought to appear composed. “Yes, well, I will trade you the candles for writing paper… two hundred pages. About six inches by nine then?”
She nodded. “Sounds right. I’ve never measured. Your father always cut the pages for me.”
“We get eight pages of six by nine per sheet.” He tried to focus on the paper, though her gaze had yet to leave his hand. “So you only need twenty-five sheets, not two hundred.”
She pointed at the door. “Should I come back for it tomorrow?”
“No, unless you’re in a rush. It will only take me a few minutes.”
“Very well.” She folded her hands and glanced about the room. “This was the Fosters’ cabin before it was your father’s print shop, wasn’t it?”
“It was.”
“Do you know if Mr. Foster will play his violin at the spring dance this year?”
“I haven’t heard.” He looked up from the paper to study her form as she ambled to the letterpress. “Will you be at the dance?”
“I’m a chaperone.”
“What are you going to write?”
“At the dance?”
“No, on this paper.”
She snapped her face toward him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Most people order writing paper a dozen pages at a time. Even the reverend only orders twice that, and he writes a sermon every week.” He marked the pages for cutting but kept eyeing her. “Why do you need two hundred pages?”
“I like to stay well stocked.”
“This should last you a lifetime.”
She mumbled, “I will use it up in four months.”
“You must be writing a book.”
“Pardon?”
“To use two hundred pages in four months, you must be writing a book. Is it a work of fiction? A love story, perhaps?”
“Never you mind.” Her regal chin lifted. She silently inspected the rows of letters he’d set in the press last night. The only sound came from the swish of the cutting blade through the paper.
He wanted to push her for answers, but she turned her face away. Her profile looked as it had at the gravesite all those years ago. This woman was not to be pushed or teased. It was a shame though as something about her stirred a longing in his soul.
Chapter Five
Hannah eyed the shelf of gray clouds moving in from the ocean as she plucked the clothespins off the dried laundry. The humid air carried the fresh scent of coming rain. The children would be home from school any minute, and she’d yet to create a plot thread reconciling Adeline’s desire to return to her homeland and her love for Aric. Her story made little sense.
Hannah stared into her full laundry basket. Why would a woman who had found true love with a brave prince suddenly want to be elsewhere? The answer eluded her.
Why had she thought she could finish the story in four months?
She pulled a piece of folded notepaper out of her po
cket and opened it. Crowded words almost too small to read filled the page, yet she had two hundred blank pages in her desk drawer waiting for her to fill them with inspired prose. At this rate, the paper would remain as blank as it was when Henry had cut it this morning.
Two hundred pages not sheets, he’d said.
At least he’d been kind about her blunder. He had looked at her oddly while he cut the pages—almost as though he was embarrassed by something. But then he’d questioned her about what she was writing. Why did he think he had the authority to say how the paper could be used?
Before she could dismiss Henry, she thought of Aric. Perhaps he too would have assertive qualities. He was a prince and had been raised in a privileged lifestyle, so it would make sense if he had strong opinions and forced them on others. Was that assertiveness, though, or simply arrogance? She would have to think about it more to apply it to Prince Aric, but as for Henry Roberts, she couldn’t say. She barely knew the man, but he seemed to possess both assertiveness and arrogance in abundance.
Prince Aric needed more complexities added to his personality, and Henry Roberts might provide examples. She glanced toward the Roberts’ property. An acre of blooming apple trees stood between her and the woods that separated their families’ farms. He lived next door, yet she only saw him in passing at church on Sundays. Did Henry’s heart have as many scars as his left hand?
She started to make a note on her page when the barn door slammed shut across the yard. A moment later, David walked past the clothesline and swiped the page from her hand. He scowled at her. “Why are you always scribbling? Shouldn’t you be working?”
“Give that back!” she demanded of her brother.
He flipped her notepaper around to read it then stopped and crinkled his brow. “This is gibberish.”
She reached for the page, but he moved away too quickly. Every muscle in her body wanted to jump at him and fight to get her private page out of his dirty hands. She would have fought him when they were children. That was probably the reaction he was hoping for. Though David was two years her junior, he was a foot taller than her and a grown man. She wasn’t a child anymore either and hadn’t been for a long time.
All Things Beautiful (Uncharted Beginnings Book 3) Page 3