All Things Beautiful (Uncharted Beginnings Book 3)

by Keely Brooke Keith

  His father hadn’t mentioned the possibility of conditions. Henry swallowed air.

  “First, we shall require proof of Henry’s skill in the craft, especially his attention to detail, as the creation of no books would be preferable to error-filled texts. Second, since the nature of the work requires independence and persistence, we shall also require proof of Henry’s ability to work skillfully and faithfully to see a project completed in a timed capacity. I know of no other way to test him than with an assignment. Henry, if you want the village to support the printing press, you must produce an error-free copy of the New Testament, printed and bound, by Good Springs’s eighth anniversary celebration.”

  Henry’s lips parted but before he could object, his father spoke. “Reverend, that is only four months away.”

  Reverend Colburn raised a palm, halting Matthew’s protest. “If you don’t believe it can be done, we will discuss other recommendations at a future meeting.”

  Henry would rather work twenty hours per day for four months than allow his livelihood be lost in council debates. He shot to his feet. “I can do it.”

  Matthew tugged on his sleeve, trying to make him sit.

  What was he thinking? Only four months to print an error-free copy of the New Testament with no help, not even an ink boy? Every muscle in his body told him to recoil and pray his father could convince them to sponsor the press in the future, but he didn’t budge. He looked Reverend Colburn in the eye. “I accept your terms, sir, should the elders agree.”

  The reverend nodded. “All in favor say aye.”

  Henry held his breath as he slowly lowered himself to the pew.

  The elders responded in unison. “Aye.”

  “Those opposed say nay?”

  When there was no response, the reverend pointed his pencil at Henry. “You have four months, son. I look forward to reading your work.”

  Chapter Seven

  After helping Doris carry bundles of floral decorations to the school for the upcoming dance, Hannah dithered on the road in front of the bustling schoolhouse. She could turn south and walk to the print shop or turn north and go home. The print shop was nearby. What could it hurt to try?

  She wanted to take Olivia’s advice and ask Henry to print and bind her story if she finished it in time for her father’s birthday. She’d gotten an early start on her cleaning chores this morning, and her father would support her if he knew what she was doing. There was no good reason for her hesitation. Still, she preferred standing on the road to choosing a direction.

  Perhaps it was the comfort of the late spring sunlight glinting between the gray leaf trees overhead that beckoned her to stay put. Or maybe it was the soft morning air whispering through the village that gently immobilized her with its kind caress.

  No, it was fear.

  The same fear that made her hide her pages and keep her stories to herself. How could she write courageous characters that carried on despite their fear if she let fear strand her on the road between her safe home and the printer who might help her make a present for her father?

  She was simply requesting Henry’s services, not his opinion on her story. Olivia had assured her Henry would be fair, and she trusted Olivia. What was the worst that could happen? If Henry said no, she would have to give her father a handwritten copy of the story, which had been her original plan.

  She rebuked her fear, stepped over a puddle left by yesterday’s rain, and headed south.

  Once near the print shop, she crossed the sandy gravel toward the log cabin that originally housed the Cotter family when they first arrived in the Land. The workshop’s door stood ajar, and its window gaped at the mid-morning sun.

  She stepped into the doorway. “Hello? Mr. Roberts? Henry?”

  No one answered.

  Her vision adjusted to the darkness in the vacant one-room workshop. The scents of copper and ink and man filled the space. The impeccably arranged shelves held little boxes of backward letters and stacks of paper, all arranged at perfect right angles.

  She trailed a finger along the edge of the press and let her skin linger on the smooth polished wood of the ancient contraption. How many books had it printed in its lifetime? How many more volumes would come to life beneath its weight?

  A half-page’s worth of moveable type was nestled backward in rows on the letterpress. Henry must have been in the middle of setting type when he’d left. She looked closer. The top row read: The Gospel According to Matthew.

  Her fingers itched to inspect the copper-plated letters and open the cabinet full of narrow drawers, but it would be rude to snoop. As she backed away from the letterpress, her elbow brushed a stack of pages on the worktable. She quickly straightened the pages and readjusted a paperweight atop the stack then stepped outside.

  The empty road stretched through the woods to where her family’s property capped the northern end of the village. Chimney smoke rose from the houses to the south, but no one was on the road. She walked to one end of the print shop and peeked around the corner. Only gray leaf trees waved from the woods that stood between the back of the building and the shore, so she walked to the other side. The outhouse door was closed, and she would not knock.

  The stone facade of the recently built library next door commanded her attention. She’d seen inside only once—after the village’s dedication ceremony—and that was for a quick look with her family. Other families had been waiting their turn to go in, and the twins had whined about being hungry, so she hadn’t given the room a close inspection. The library had been empty then. Was it still?

  Two sawhorses stood between the library and the print shop with a stack of lumber nearby. She padded across the sawdust-covered ground. The library’s narrow wooden door had been constructed from the Providence’s deck planks and still smelled of seawater. A two-inch gap parted the door from its frame, so she pushed it farther open. The iron hinges creaked.

  “Hello?”

  Only a faint echo of her voice answered.

  She stepped inside. Wooden bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling around the perimeter of the library, save for one section of bare wall by the door. A plumb line hung from the top of the wall there, and a stack of tools rested near the baseboard. That must be what the lumber was for.

  Her shoes scuffed along the stone floor as she perambulated the room. She couldn’t remember ever having walked on such a smooth stone floor before. All the houses in the Land had wooden floors, as did her family’s farmhouse back in Virginia. The stone gave the place a sacred feel, like the way she imagined the inside of a temple or mausoleum. Though as the town library, the hallowed air might warm once the shelves were filled with books.

  A shadow darkened the doorway, and Henry stepped inside. He ran his right hand through his reddish brown hair and slid his left hand behind his back. “Miss Vestal?”

  As he stared down at her from a foot taller, she tucked her chin. “So sorry to trespass.”

  His lips curved into a smile, but his brow creased with an authoritative scowl. “You aren’t trespassing. This is a public building.”

  Her eyes met his and she almost looked away again, but something about the blue of them held her gaze. His scowl released and all that remained was a grin—charming with a hint of mischief. She mirrored his expression, hoping it might help her cause. “I’ve come to request your printing services.”

  “Ah.” He folded his hands in front of his ink-stained leather apron but said nothing else.

  “Upon Olivia’s suggestion.” Her voice echoed in the empty stone room, distracting her. “I can trade you candles or, if you prefer, apples from my father’s orchard if you are willing to wait until autumn for payment.”

  He tilted his head as if asking for more explanation.

  “It’s my wish to make a present for my father’s next birthday. It will be his fiftieth, you see, and he has made his desire known to me for a particular gift, so I will do my best to oblige.”

  “And that desire is wh
at, Miss Vestal?”

  “A book.”

  “What sort of book?”

  “Fiction.”

  Henry lifted a palm. “Just any novel?”

  “No, a specific story.” She wet her dry lips. “Turning the story into a book is my idea… well it’s Olivia’s, actually. My father would like to read a story that I’ve written… that I am writing. Olivia is the only person other than my father who knows about my writing, and I must ask that you keep this matter private.”

  “Why?”

  Air swooped into her lungs on a sharp inhale. She repeated his disrespectful question. “Why?”

  “Yes, why do you believe writing a story to be a private matter?” His smile was gone. “In an isolated village as small as Good Springs, there are people praying for new stories to read. Did you ever consider them?”

  “What? No. I mean, not that I don’t consider others, but this is a private matter within my family.” She lowered her voice to decrease the echo in the room. “I first read my story to my mother and now my father has asked to read it too. I’d like to present it to him on his birthday and do so without the entire village knowing of my pastime. Olivia thought it might be nice to have the story printed and bound for my father. I believe it would have made my mother proud.”

  At the mention of her mother, Henry’s expression softened. He turned to the door and waved for her to follow him. They crossed the wet ground between the library and the print shop. He lit a candle on the worktable beside the press. “When is your father’s birthday?”

  “The fourteenth of March.”

  Henry wiped his face with both hands. “I have a very important project to finish by the twenty-first of March, which will take most of my waking hours between now and then.”

  “Oh.” She dropped back a step, ready to leave him to his work. “Sorry to have bothered you. Thank you for your time.”

  “Has your story been edited?”

  “It will be once it’s finished.”

  “Once it’s finished? But you said you had read the story to your mother.”

  She didn’t need to be questioned, especially by some arrogant pressman who knew nothing about her story or her family or her private life. She marched toward the door then stopped abruptly to try one last time before leaving. “Will you print the story or not?”

  “Not if it isn’t finished.”

  Olivia had said Henry might not be pleasant but he would be fair. Hannah agreed about the unpleasant quality but had yet to witness his fairness. She whirled back around to face him. “How much time would you need for printing?”

  “How many pages is it?”

  She couldn’t say without knowing how she would change the ending and what else might come to her in the process, but she wasn’t about to give Henry Roberts those details. “About two hundred pages, handwritten.”

  “Thus your trade for paper the other day.” He propped his left hand on his hip. The stumps from where he’d lost fingers formed a misshapen fist. “I’d need two weeks. No less.” He lifted a little box of letters from the worktable and picked through them. “Will you have it finished and edited by the first of March?”

  A tinge of hope warmed her heart. “So, you will print it? Name your price. Candles? Apples? I can bake, sew, make soap—”

  “Candles.” He lowered his chin, silencing her. “If you finish the story, not that I think you will, but if you do—”

  She raised her voice. “Of course, I will finish it!”

  “Of course, nothing.” He flattened his tone. “If you have been revising it for six years, I lack faith in your ability to complete it in four months.”

  She straightened her spine, though it didn’t increase her stature. “I will indeed finish the story for my father.”

  Henry shrugged as if unimpressed by her resolve. His fingers went back to riffling through the letters in the box, but his eyes moved from the letters to her and back. “Very well. Finish the story and bring it to me by the first of March. I must read it and consider it worthy of my press before I will agree to print it.”

  Every nerve in her skin bristled. “I only want your printing not your opinion. How dare you!”

  He set the box down and spread both hands on his worktable. Leaning forward, he leveled his gaze on her. “It is not a matter of what I dare and dare not do, Miss Vestal, as this is my press. I have very high standards of what I print. If I am to take the time to make the ink and set the type, not to mention the process of binding the book, I do indeed dare to first ensure the work deserves my expertise. If I find your story to be a noble literary work, I will print it. If it falls short of my standards in any way, I will not waste my ink.”

  She crossed her arms. “You don’t think I could write a story worthy of your ink?”

  “No.”

  “Why? Because I am female?”

  “No, because you make no sense in your speech, causing me to doubt your ability to bring logic to the page. You want your writing kept secret, yet you want your story brought to press. You consider the story unfinished, yet you read the completed story to your mother…” His voice lost its force when he spoke of her mother. He rubbed the palm of his scarred hand. “Since out of sentiment you’re determined to have it printed, I will read the finished work—if you can indeed finish it. If I deem it worthwhile, I will print and bind it for you… for your father. If not, you must accept my decision as one of business. It’s nothing personal, Miss Vestal. Try your best not to take offense.”

  “Not to take offense?” A strong retort dissolved on her tongue. If his main concern with her ability to write was because he found her words lacked logic, arguing out of anger might only solidify his opinion. She took a slow breath and steadied her voice. “Thank you for your consideration. I will deliver the finished and edited manuscript to you before the first of March.” She stepped to the door allowing the air to cool her burning cheeks. Before walking away, she glanced back. “You are incorrect about one thing, though, Mr. Roberts. I bring logic to the page by empowering my stories first with emotion. Anyone who possesses the slightest insight into the human experience would appreciate the tension in my reasoning.”

  Henry’s eyes widened, but in a fraction of a second he erased the surprise from his face. His faintly mischievous grin returned. “Good day, Miss Vestal.”

  “Good day, Mr. Roberts.”

  Chapter Eight

  The sun sank behind the trees to the west, lining cumulous clouds with splotches of orange light. As Henry neared his workshop, he sucked on one of the hard candies his mother had set out in a glass dish after dinner. She’d made them with licorice, saying his favorite flavor would bring him comfort while he worked long into the night. Having his family’s encouragement empowered his determination to meet the elders’ challenge and secure village support for the printing press.

  He reached for the doorknob but stopped short before he turned it. Something was amiss. When he had pulled the door closed before he left for dinner, he’d turned the knob a quarter to the left so a dark knot in the wood would be in the noon position. It was an old habit he’d started when he was young and his sisters enjoyed snooping in his room while he was gone. Once the print shop was his, he’d found a mark in the doorknob’s wood and positioned it precisely every time he left the shop.

  He switched the candy to the other side of his mouth and glanced over his shoulder. Light glowed through the shuttered window of the library next door. A hammer’s muted pound thudded rhythmically. Gabe was finishing the bookshelves.

  The chapel across the road was dark, as was the schoolhouse. No one was on the road in either direction.

  Henry cracked open the door and peered into his workshop before stepping inside. The pages he’d left hanging to dry quivered in the air that blew through the open doorway. Nothing else moved, but the blackness of the shadows behind the press had him reaching into his trouser pocket.

  His fingers curled around his closed pocketknife just as hi
s tongue curled around the candy. His heart thumped against the wall of his chest. He drew the knife from his pocket. What was he thinking? He wouldn’t stab a person. If anyone were in his shop, he or she would be a member of the community, possibly a child. He knew what it was like to have flesh ripped, and he’d never inflict that pain upon another individual.

  He dropped the knife back into his pocket and took out a match instead. Striking it, he stepped inside and lit one of the candles he’d received in trade with Hannah.

  As the flame spread upon the wick, he lowered the candle into a mirrored lantern then circled the room. He was alone, but someone had been here. A folded scrap of paper perched like a tent on his worktable. His name was scribbled in pencil on the note’s exterior. He unfolded it and read its one sentence: stay Away from hannah Vestal.

  He looked at the windows, the open door, and back toward the unsigned note. Who would write such a message?

  The writing’s quick slant and straight stems proved a masculine hand, ruling out the females in the village. Besides, he couldn’t imagine any woman in Good Springs writing a note like this. He’d hurt Cecelia Foster’s feelings last year, but her anger had since cooled.

  So the note’s writer had to be a male. The mismatched usage of upper and lower case suggested a lack of education. That ruled out all the elders. So a young man must have written the note.

  He flipped the paper over and rubbed a thumb along the deep pencil grooves. Whoever had written this was upset when he wrote it. But who?

  He thought back to his visit from Hannah earlier in the day. She had made a point of asking for privacy, so it was doubtful she told anyone about the meeting. He couldn’t recall seeing or hearing anyone else on the road at the time, but he hadn’t been paying close attention. He’d been focused on beginning the New Testament project for the elders, and when Hannah came in, he’d been struck by a mixture of annoyance and intrigue.