She returned her attention to the clothesline, pretending not to care that he was looking at her private notes. “Perhaps if you had finished school, you would be able to read my gibberish.”
He squinted at the page. “Prince? You don’t still write your little fairy tales, do you?”
She hadn’t realized he knew anything about her stories. Her cheeks burned. “Mind your own business!”
David held the page out to her, pinching its corner as if it were covered in bird dung. “No wonder you always look tired. Maybe if you put away your childish love stories, you could focus on your housework.”
She snatched the paper from him and shoved it into her apron. The sound of a short tear came from her pocket, rousing the ever-present ache of disappointment. “Go away, David. Don’t you have work to do?”
“I could ask you the same. You promised Mother you would take care of the house, remember?”
Before she could form a bold retort, Christopher’s voice boomed from behind them. “Leave her alone.”
She glowered at David until he walked away, then she unpinned the last of the laundry and hefted the basket to the house. “Thank you, Father.”
Christopher opened the mudroom door for her. “A storm is coming.”
Her four youngest siblings strode toward the orchard from the road, books in their arms and empty lunch pails swinging from their wrists. Hannah grinned at her father. “Are you speaking of the rain clouds or of them?”
He chuckled then gazed at the road and paused abruptly. “Oh. Olivia is with them.”
“She is coming to help Doris with the decorations for the spring dance.”
“Very well.” His eyes scanned the sky as he left the stoop. “The clouds are tall. The rain will pass as quickly as it comes. Give Olivia my best. I need to do some work in the barn.”
The back door blew closed behind Hannah. She stood in the mudroom, peering through the window. Her father waved jovially at the children and raised his hat to Olivia as he rushed toward the barn. He always seemed in a hurry to hide himself when Olivia came around.
A chorus of thuds shook the mudroom as the children scuttled onto the stoop. Hannah opened the door for them. “Hello Minnie, Ida,” she greeted the twins as they passed. “Wade, shoes off.”
Doris dashed past her. “Do we have a spare basket? I’m off to collect flowers, and Mrs. McIntosh is going to show me how to dry them so they will be perfect for the spring dance decorations.”
“Hello to you too,” Hannah said to Doris’s back as her sister raced to their bedroom to look for a basket.
Hannah turned to greet Olivia. The giddy thrill of a friend’s presence in her home made her clasp her hands over her heart. “Come in, come in. I’m so glad you’re here!”
Olivia stepped inside, beaming. She smoothed back windswept strands of black hair as she ascended the steps into the kitchen. “Is this a good time? Doris said she told you I would visit today.” She glanced around as if making sure none of the children were within earshot then drew a stack of papers from her satchel. “I didn’t only come to help with the decorations. I finished reading the pages you left with me last week. I thought we might go over my notes while Doris is out gathering flowers.”
Hannah accepted the pages and promptly folded them in half so no one would see if they came into the room. Before she could reply, Doris sprang from the bedroom still wearing her bonnet, ran through the kitchen and into the parlor, and popped back into the kitchen, holding up a sea grass basket by its arched handle. “I found one!”
“Great,” Olivia said. “Now remember to keep as much stem with the flowers as possible.”
“Yes, Mrs. McIntosh.” Doris smiled. Her eyes turned to Hannah. “I’ll be in the meadow.”
“Rain is coming.”
“I won’t be long.”
The twins followed Doris outside, and Wade laced up his work boots to go start his barn chores. The folded pages warmed in Hannah’s fingers as she waited for her brother to leave. She wanted to hear what Olivia thought of her evolving story. More than that, she wanted to tell Olivia her new goal. Though eager to begin their conversation, she wasn’t about to give her youngest brother a hint of her private life, especially after the way David had behaved.
She motioned to the table for Olivia to take a seat. “Care for a cup of tea?”
“Only water for me, thanks.”
Hannah set a covered plate on the table and peeled back a tea towel. “How about a sweet roll?”
Olivia’s thin black eyebrows rose. “Icing? How delicious!” She selected one from the basket, took a bite, and hummed. “Thank heavens for sugar beets.”
Hannah filled two cups with water and placed them on the table. She sat adjacent Olivia and unfolded her pages. A slight tremble vibrated Hannah’s fingertips, so she tucked one hand into her lap. “Before we begin, I need to tell you something… to ask you something… your opinion about something.”
Olivia leaned forward. “What is it?”
“My father knows I write. He’s known about my story for years, and he wants to read it.”
“Will you let him?”
Hannah pulled the scrunched notepaper from her apron pocket. She laid it on the table and smoothed out the wrinkles that had formed when David had teased her with it outside. If someone had mocked her about her notes, she dare not imagine what they would do with her story. “Not yet. I want it to be perfect first.”
Olivia tilted her head a degree. “Will you let him read it once it’s done?”
“Yes, but only because he asked. It seemed important to him. He spoke of getting older and not wanting to see me hide my talent. What do you think?”
“It’s your decision.”
“No, I mean, do you think my story will ever be good enough for someone else to read it?”
Olivia touched her hand. “I think it’s good enough now. Overall, it just needs some polishing and a satisfying ending. You are the one who isn’t pleased with it. Look through those pages and find my notes.”
Hannah scanned the first page and flipped to the second then the third. The only marks on the page were hers. She continued searching for any of Olivia’s usual editing marks but found none. “You didn’t find any flaws in the entire chapter?”
Olivia shook her head and a silky strand of black hair escaped her chignon. “Your writing has matured. You have developed your characters beautifully. I was fascinated by the new plot you created for Adeline, and I’m eager to read the rest.”
A strange sense of accomplishment mixed with terror gurgled inside her. “The rest,” she repeated on a whisper.
“Do you know where the story is going now?”
She shook her head. “Not exactly.”
“It’s time to let your imagination take over. Use the talent God gave you.”
“That’s what my father said.”
Olivia nodded. “He’s right. You wanted my opinion. I believe you should finish your story and share it.”
She held up a hand. “Only with my father for his birthday. I don’t want anyone else to see it or even to know I write.”
“When is his birthday?”
“In four months.” She tapped her fingers on the papers. “Do you think I can finish in time?”
“Sure.”
“And have time to make a copy for his gift?”
Olivia’s eyes widened.
“What? You think that’s impossible, don’t you?”
“No, it’s possible, but I have another idea.” A mischievous grin made her dark eyes sparkle. “You should ask Henry Roberts to print and bind your story.”
Hannah’s stomach recoiled. “Like a book?”
“It isn’t like a book, Hannah. It is a book. You’re writing a novel.”
“Yes, I know,” she said without meaning it. She hadn’t meant to write a book. It was a story—a story that kept her mind occupied during monotonous and lonely days, a story that allowed her to produce something bigger than l
aundry and dinner. It was still a story that never should be shared. It was part of her private world. “Henry probably doesn’t have the time to print my little story.”
Olivia shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask. I think a bound, printed copy of your story would make a lovely gift for your father’s fiftieth birthday.”
“What if Henry says no?”
“Then you handwrite a copy.”
“What if he tells everyone I write fiction?”
“Henry isn’t like that.”
If she finished her story and Olivia kindly edited it and Henry printed and bound it into a book, she would have succeeded in the goal she was putting before herself, but somehow success felt more dreadful than failure. If she failed to produce the story, there would be no book, no gift, no embarrassment, no torture of wondering what someone else thought of her words. But then she would be guilty of taking her talent to the grave. Scary as it was, she had to explore Olivia’s idea. “What if Henry says yes?”
“Then you will have your manuscript turned into a book, and your father will be delighted.”
Hannah stood and busied her hands at the stove. “No, I mean if Henry prints it, he will read it too.”
“I’m sure he will enjoy the story.”
“But what if he doesn’t? Literature is subjective. You taught me that. You said readers perceive the story through the lens of their own experiences and preferences. What if Henry ridicules me? What if I can’t write a strong ending?”
“Then I will tell you it needs more work before it is printed.”
She had trusted Olivia with her story for six years. Olivia would stop her from sharing a story that wasn’t fit to be read. But even if she finished the story and liked the ending and took it to Olivia and she approved of the story, she would have to trust Henry. Her simple pastime felt like ivy that began as a ground cover and was now blanketing the house, sucking the moisture from the wood. She turned back to face Olivia. “I’m not sure I can do this. I never wanted to be a published author.”
Olivia tilted her head. “Then don’t think of it as publishing a book but as making a present for your father. Henry and my husband have been friends their entire lives. He is trustworthy. Ask for his confidence in the matter and tell him I sent you.” Olivia’s playful grin returned. “He might not always be pleasant, but he will treat you fairly.”
Chapter Six
Henry chewed his cheek while waiting for the elders to slog through mind-numbing village business and get to his father’s request to make the printing press a village-supported trade. The weekly Wednesday night elders’ meetings always droned for hours, but tonight’s agenda set a new standard for tedium. Henry’s toes curled inside his boots as he fought the urge to blast out of his seat and beg Reverend Colburn to get to what mattered.
Sitting at Henry’s left, his father shifted on the wooden pew. Matthew kept a stoic expression while Reverend Colburn opened the floor for the elders to discuss the use of the late Mr. Weathermon’s cabin. Gabe McIntosh sat to Henry’s right, smelling of sawdust after a day of building. Gabe crossed his arms when his father stood to speak.
“My son Arnold would like to have the empty cabin. Arnold plans to ask Hazel Roberts to marry soon. The cabin would suit them well.”
There was a brief murmur between the men as discussion began. Gabe elbowed Henry and smirked. “My brother and your sister.”
“Bound to happen,” Henry mumbled, not amused.
The elders’ discussion of Mr. Weathermon’s old cabin didn’t hold Henry’s interest. His mind drifted and he cast his gaze to the window. The rain had stopped and the sun had long since set, but no stars were visible since the chapel interior’s lamplight was reflecting off the glass.
Four large oil lanterns burned in the room. It seemed excessive, but ever since Dr. Ashton had found an efficient way to refine the oil he’d discovered in the shale down the coast, all the homes and workshops had brightened.
All except the print shop.
One spill of burning fuel could consume six months’ worth of Henry’s precious work. He would rather squint in candlelight than risk torching his exquisite pages. No matter what the genius Ashtons came up with, he would stick to candles. And as long as Hannah Vestal kept trading her candles for his paper, he was in no danger of wanting for light.
Hannah Vestal. He wanted to see her but didn’t know why. It might be a long while before she came to trade again, considering the amount of paper she’d taken at once. Surely she was writing a novel to need so much paper at once. But she didn’t behave like any writer he had known. Why had she acted secretively about needing paper? Maybe she wasn’t a writer. The writers he knew back in America boasted about their craft as if the profession were an appointment so divinely bequeathed the populous would be destitute without them.
Hannah wasn’t like those writers. She hadn’t experienced a society that held the pursuit of fame in higher regard than the desire for holiness. She hadn’t experienced much socializing at all but spent her life minding five siblings and her parents’ home. Maybe the solitude had made her scared of people. Or of men. Or maybe she was just modest. Still, if she was a writer and her writing was any good, she wouldn’t be secretive about it. Perhaps he should make a point of speaking with her after church on Sunday to see if she would divulge clues to her paper usage.
Beside him, Matthew stroked his white side whiskers while his gaze shifted between Mr. McIntosh and Reverend Colburn as the matter of Mr. Weathermon’s cabin was brought to a vote. The reverend’s dignified voice resounded through the narrow chapel. “All those in favor, say aye.”
Matthew and the other elders replied, “Aye.”
“Those opposed, say nay?”
No one objected.
Henry glanced at Gabe beside him then shot a look down the pew to Jonah. The three of them had spent eight years marveling at the elders’ exhaustive discussions that usually ended in divided votes. Perhaps if the elders were feeling inclined to vote quickly and in the affirmative on Mr. McIntosh’s request, they would be accommodating when the matter of the printing press was raised.
Reverend Colburn adjusted his slipping spectacles then silently read his notes at the lectern. Henry scratched the thickly scarred skin between his middle finger and the nub of his missing ring finger while the reverend followed the words he read with his pencil tip. What was taking him so long to read?
Finally, the reverend spoke, repeatedly glancing at his notes. “The Roberts family is making changes, or rather, Matthew has come to a decision about the occupations of his eldest two sons. Simon isn’t suited for the work of the printing press but has taken over the family’s farming while Matthew has devoted his time to making paper. He gave the printing press, including the workshop, to Henry. Of all this, I heartily approve as he is passing his primary vocation to his eldest son.”
Since Henry was not allowed to speak up as a junior member in the council, he gave his father a light nudge. Matthew drew a trifolded square of scrap paper from his breast pocket and pinched the seam repeatedly between his fingers while he waited to be addressed.
Reverend Colburn continued speaking. “The occupation of printing and binding books to supply the school and church and to begin the village’s library now falls to Henry, who has no home or land of his own with which to sustain himself. The Roberts family is pleased to allow Henry to remain at home and to provide him room and board for the time being. Like any man in Good Springs, once he decides to marry we would appoint him land and help him build a home.” He removed his spectacles. “However, Mr. Roberts has proposed the village support Henry’s livelihood continually by making the press a village-supported profession.”
The reverend looked over the men seated in the first pew and settled his gaze on Matthew. “Have you prepared a statement?”
The elders in the front row craned their necks to look at Matthew. Henry tightened his abdominal muscles, bracing himself for his father’s speech.
&
nbsp; “I have.” His father stood and straightened his lapel then unfolded his paper. “A pressman’s life is defined by slow and precise work. Unlike the swinging of a hammer, the setting of type requires delicate perfection. The press’s quiet heroism often goes unnoticed, unlike the often quick rescue of a physician.”
Henry went back to chewing his cheek to refrain from groaning.
Matthew continued with his flowery monologue. “The work of the pressman benefits not one customer at a time but the village as a whole over time and, therefore, he should be supported by the village as a whole. The pressman’s purpose in Good Springs is not simply to trade a product nor does the printing press exist solely to supply books to individuals for entertainment but for the furtherance of our education, for the guarantee that the Scripture won’t be lost when our few Bibles fade, for the preservation of our culture from one generation to the next, the reinforcement of our values, the respite of the soul when swept into story, yea, for the enrichment of our very lives.
“As the village population doubles or triples every twenty years, the supply of Bibles and schoolbooks must increase, and that, men of Good Springs, takes the whole life of a committed pressman.”
Several of the elders nodded in agreement, including Reverend Colburn.
Henry’s toes relaxed inside his shoes. His father’s eloquence appeared to have stirred the elders to approval.
“Thank you, Matthew,” the reverend said. He looked at his notes and then at Henry. “Are you committed to this occupation for life, son?”
He stood beside his father and squared his shoulders. “I am.” All that was left was arranging the terms of his support, and he could leave here a satisfied man.
Reverend Colburn patted the air, directing Henry to sit. Then he addressed the elders. “Is there a man among us who does not see the need and value of the printing press?”
No one spoke.
The reverend nodded. “Very well, Matthew you may be seated too. I recommend the village of Good Springs supports the livelihood of the pressman, not in perpetuity, only for Mr. Henry Roberts’s lifetime and only under certain conditions.”
All Things Beautiful (Uncharted Beginnings Book 3) Page 4