Why would her coming to him with a business request infuriate any young man in the village?
The hammering stopped in the library next door. Henry folded the note and slid it into his shirt pocket as Gabe came into the workshop. He raised his chin at Gabe. “Done for the night?”
Gabe grinned. “Done for good. Shelves are up.”
“Did you see anybody come in here while I was gone?”
“No. Why?”
“Just curious.”
Gabe pointed a thumb toward the library. “I’ll clean up and get my tools tomorrow.”
Henry nodded then checked the ink on the pages hanging up to dry behind the worktable. “Does Hannah Vestal have a suitor?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“She and Olivia are friends, aren’t they?”
Gabe stepped to the other side of the worktable and pinched the edge of one of the wet pages. “They’ve been friends for years… since Mrs. Vestal died. Olivia helps Hannah with her writing.”
“So you know about Hannah’s writing.”
Gabe held up both hands in surrender. “And it’s between them. My wife tells me very little about Hannah’s visits, and I don’t ask questions.” He motioned to the printed pages hanging from the line. “You think you can do this?”
“Do what?”
“Meet the elders’ challenge. Print an error-free copy of the New Testament in four months.”
Henry had run the numbers twice. He had the paper, the ingredients for the ink so long as people brought him soot, and the determination. “If nothing happens to the press and I’m able to focus on only this task, I should have it done in time. I’ll have to work every night, but I don’t mind.”
Gabe pointed at the candle. “Oil lanterns would be brighter.”
“I don’t want fuel in here. One fiery spill and I could lose all of my work.”
“I suppose your mother is happy to make the extra candles for you.”
“Wasn’t my mother’s doing.” Henry turned to the press so Gabe wouldn’t see his face. “Hannah traded them for paper.”
Gabe smirked. “Hannah?”
“Yes.”
“That’s why you wanted to know if she has a suitor.”
Henry ignored the ache simmering inside his chest and drew the unsigned note from his pocket. He passed it to Gabe. “No. This was.”
Gabe frowned as he read it. “Who is it from?”
Henry shrugged. “Someone entered my shop while I was at dinner. They left it on my worktable.”
“Show it to Olivia. She will know whose handwriting it is.”
“I’d rather forget about it. Hannah would be embarrassed if the matter came to light.”
Gabe refolded the note and handed it back. “It might not be bad advice.”
“What?”
“To stay away from her… romantically. Don’t forget what happened with Cecelia.”
The mention of Cecelia made the ache in Henry’s chest expand. Was it his fault he didn’t have the patience for women, that they were so easily offended, that he preferred the quiet of his workshop to the incessant chatter of insecure girls who demanded constant attention?
So what if Hannah was different, complex, intriguing? He was done with putting his heart at risk for women who didn’t understand him. He held up his left hand to stop the conversation. It worked on everyone. “Believe me, I am not interested in Hannah Vestal.”
Chapter Nine
A violin’s melodious hum floated on the wind as Hannah accompanied Doris to the spring dance at the schoolhouse. The stiff edges of Hannah’s new dress shoes pressed into her ankles as Doris hurried them along. She reached for Doris’s arm. “No need to rush. We aren’t late.”
“The music has started.”
“Mr. Cotter is probably warming up.”
Doris craned her neck. “If Sarah gets there first, Benjamin will ask her to dance and not me.” She pointed through the waning twilight at the lamp-lit schoolhouse. “See, we’re late.”
Hannah let go of her arm. “Slow down. We don’t want to arrive red-faced and out-of-breath.”
“Everyone else is already there.”
“We would have been here sooner if you hadn’t insisted I wear curls.”
Doris flashed her a playful smile. “I had to. You’ve been looking dowdy lately.”
Hannah’s iron-formed curls bounced around her face as she and Doris trotted to the schoolhouse. She pushed the curls off her forehead, but they sprang back into place thanks to the floral-scented pomatum Doris had borrowed from Sarah Ashton. Dowdy or not, she never should have let Doris talk her into such frivolity.
Doris dashed ahead of her, climbing the schoolhouse steps in time with the music’s quick beat. Hannah hurried, not wanting her young sister to enter without a chaperone. The music’s volume rose as the door opened. A drum and mandolin joined the jolly tune.
The desks and chairs had been removed, leaving the long schoolroom void of seating and open for dancing and mingling. Doris’s flowery decorations adorned the walls at regular intervals. Young people danced in a formal circle while their chaperones—mostly older siblings—flanked the schoolhouse walls. The stuffy room already smelled of sweat and anxious adolescents.
It was the village custom for all attendees to dance at least once to show a good spirit. Hannah dearly loved to dance but doubted she’d be asked. She enjoyed watching people more than dancing, and there was plenty to observe.
She leaned close to Doris’s ear and raised her voice over the music. “Your decorations look beautiful. Well done!”
Doris smiled then stood on her tiptoes. “Anthony is playing the drum. Isn’t he handsome?”
She chuckled at her starry-eyed sister. “I thought you were hoping Benjamin would ask you to dance tonight.”
“Either one.” Doris giggled then nudged Hannah. “It appears you have an admirer.”
Hannah scanned the crowd of young people and chaperones. “Who?”
Doris shielded her mouth with a gloved hand. “Henry Roberts.”
She followed Doris’s line of sight to Henry. He stood near the dance floor with one hand casually in his trouser pocket and the other hand smoothing the back of his coppery brown hair. When their gaze met, a mixture of aggravation and attraction wrestled inside her. She looked away. “He’s probably here as Ellenore’s chaperone.”
“He’s been watching you since we walked in. You should talk to him.”
“I will not.”
“He is a dapper sort of fellow. I’ll talk to him.”
“You will do no such thing.” She pinched the back of Doris’s arm. “He’s twice your age.”
Doris giggled again then dashed off to join her friends. The girls she was so worried about competing with fawned over her dress and petted her puffed sleeves.
Hannah glanced around the room for an empty spot along the wall where she might take refuge. Voices swelled as the dancers laughed and the observers shouted to keep their conversations alive over the music. Reverend Colburn stood beneath one of the flower wreaths at the head of the classroom, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the Land. Hannah understood the feeling but couldn’t pass up this opportunity to glean inspiration for her story.
Her brother David stood across the room with some of the village’s older boys. They weren’t boys anymore but young men; many of them were in training with their fathers to one day be village elders, but for tonight they were young men perusing a spring dance, hopeful to catch the eye of a young lady.
What if Prince Aric were in a similar situation when he first noticed Adeline? What if instead of the drab scene where he meets Adeline on the road, they meet at a ball? A masquerade? She might be in borrowed clothes or trying to disguise herself to slip through the palace and he mistakes her for a courtier. Or maybe she’s working the ball as a servant, picks up a lost mask, and he thinks she is one of them. No, mistaken identity was used too frequently in romantic tales. The test of Aric�
�s love should be in committing to a commoner against his parents’ wishes, not in finding reasons to love her after being deceived.
But, oh, what it must be like to fall in love at a dance!
Perhaps the power of the story was in the perspective. Maybe Adeline should first notice Aric at a ball, but he doesn’t notice her. She could spend days thinking about him, fantasizing scenarios of meeting him, being courted by him, captivating him.
Hannah hummed aloud unintentionally. No one could have heard her over the music, but her cheeks warmed. She started to walk toward the door for fresh air when someone tapped her on the shoulder.
Henry’s brother Simon smiled, his thick lower lip curving more than the upper. “Would you care to dance, Miss Vestal?”
He’d been two years ahead of her in school back in Virginia, but he’d only stayed through the sixth grade. She remembered him being kind but not particularly smart. Since she had to dance with someone, Simon Roberts would make a harmless partner. She accepted the arm he offered. “Yes, thank you.”
As they joined the circle of waiting couples in the center of the room, her gaze fell on Henry who remained near the dance area with his left hand still in his pocket even though there were plenty of young ladies not yet dancing. His light blue eyes shot a contemptuous stare at Simon.
What right have he to be displeased by his brother’s choice of dancing partner? First, he’d asserted himself into her writing process by saying he’d only print her story if he approved of it, and now he scowled at his brother for dancing with her. Though her feet followed the rhythmic steps of the dance and her face offered a friendly smile to her partner, she thought only of Henry’s audacity until the dance was over.
When the song ended with a triple beat from the drum and a soft note fading from the violin, the dancers applauded each other and the musicians. With a quick nod of thanks to Simon, Hannah left the dancers to their sweaty circle and made haste to the door.
The cool air lapped the heat from her skin. Her gloved hand hovered over the wooden rail as she descended the schoolhouse steps. As soon as the door closed and she was alone, she removed her gloves and loosened her starched collar. Without pins, there was nothing she could do to keep the stiff curls off her forehead. Tomorrow she’d pay in blemishes for tonight’s primping.
And all for what? One dance.
She wasn’t here for herself but for her sister. Doris was getting the adolescence Hannah never had. Perhaps as a bystander in Doris’s upbringing she could experience enough youthful preening and romantic angst to write young love adequately. Perhaps not.
Maybe her story wasn’t meant to be a love story at all but only a tale of missed experience and distant observation.
The music pulsed to life again inside the schoolhouse, and the door rattled as the dancers bobbed and the crowd shifted. Hannah ambled around the side of the building to where the school desks and chairs had been banished. The chairs were too low to the sandy ground to keep her full skirt out of the sand while sitting, so she hoisted herself upon a desk.
Her new shoes dangled above the earth. As she leaned her head back to take in the stars and the bright oval-shaped moon, footsteps swished over the sand and gravel at the front of the building. She held still, hoping not to draw attention to the restful place she’d found.
A shadow rounded the schoolhouse. “Did my brother’s poor dancing chase you away?”
She didn’t have to see his face to know Henry was smirking, but she flicked a glance at him anyway. “Not at all. Simon is quite amiable.”
He slid a finger along his collar and opened the knot in his cravat. “Stuffy in there.”
“Indeed.” She returned her attention to the stars above, hoping Henry would take the hint and go away. He didn’t move. Why wasn’t he walking away?
After a quiet moment, he took a step closer. “I like your curls.”
She pushed her hair off her forehead. “Doris insisted. She’s quite girlish. It’s nonsensical.”
“It’s pretty. You look like your mother.”
At that, her gaze peeled away from the sky. “Thank you.”
Just as the kindness of his comment sank in and almost softened her heart toward him, he asked. “Are you interested in Simon?”
She was not, but if she were, it wouldn’t be any of Henry’s business. Tonight, many couples would dance who had no romantic interest in each other. How was her dance with Simon any different? “Why do you ask?”
“I saw you together. You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”
His assumptions made her jaw clench. If she were interested in his brother, would he object to them courting as he’d objected to printing her manuscript? First her book wasn’t good enough for his ink, and now she wasn’t good enough for his brother. She narrowed her eyes at him. “I enjoy dancing, and Simon was polite enough to ask. I won’t let your brother court me, if that is what you’re worried about.”
His arrogant brow creased. “Did I offend you?”
She scooted off the desktop. “I should go back inside. I’m here as Doris’s chaperone.”
“She’s in a chatty huddle with Sarah Ashton and Roseanna Colburn. The reverend hasn’t taken his eyes off them.” He slid both hands into his pockets. “How have I offended you?”
“Pardon?”
“Why are you upset with me?”
Though it might have been the moonlight affecting his expression, his eyes held sincerity. Could he be unaware of his haughty demeanor and prickly tone? Perhaps Prince Aric would also benefit from such a flaw, however, a lack of charm might make Adeline less attracted to him.
Maybe Henry’s disinclination to polish his harsh opinions had more to do with sincerity than pride. She wouldn’t find out by walking away, and she owed it to her writing to investigate. She leaned back against the desk and crossed her arms over her bodice. “You said I couldn’t write a story worth printing.”
He drew both hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms, reflecting her posture. “I explained that was a business decision. My father taught me long ago not to print every manuscript presented to me. There’s no reason for you to be angry with me. If it were your press, wouldn’t you use discernment in deciding what to print?”
“You judged my writing unprintable without reading it.”
Someone stepped outside. They both glanced toward the front of the building. A shadow lingered at the front of the building but no one came into view.
When Henry looked back at her, he spoke with a quieter voice. “I said I would read it and make my decision then. I was simply letting you know the potential outcome. Isn’t that better than if I had pretended to anticipate enjoying your story only to refuse to print it?”
She sucked in an incredulous breath. “See, you assume my story won’t be enjoyable. It’s your prejudice that offends me.”
“My honesty offends you.”
“You’re conceited.”
“You’re illogical.”
She jabbed the air with a finger. “I will shape my story into such a powerfully moving novel, you will choke on your tears when you read it.”
Henry drew his head back and widened his eyes. She lowered her pointing finger, unsure of why she’d become so angry. Folding her hands loosely, she glanced around to see if anyone else had witnessed her outburst. They were alone unless someone was around the corner on the schoolhouse steps.
She focused on the shadowed ground around her feet. “I’m sorry.”
“Never apologize for defending your work.” His voice had lost its edge. “When you seemed ashamed of your writing, I didn’t want to read it, but this passion has awakened my curiosity.”
She studied his face. What he lacked in charm, he made up for in honesty. Perhaps this was the fairness Olivia had spoken of. If he took his work so seriously as to judge what he printed, maybe she could trust him with her story. Still, the thought of someone besides Olivia reading her work brought a sickly ache to her belly. “This is unner
ving for me.”
He leaned in a degree. “What is?”
Though no one else was near, she lowered her voice to barely above a whisper. “My mother was the only person I shared my writing with. After she died, Olivia understood how I felt. She helped my family, and I trusted her. Now my father says he wants to read my story, so I’m finishing it. Olivia suggested I have it printed, and that meant coming to you. I only came to you because I trust her. I know you have standards for your press, and you know nothing about my writing, but I don’t know you. Not really. Not well enough to be comfortable with you reading my story and making judgments.”
Henry gazed down at her for a quiet moment. He uncrossed his arms and rubbed the palm of his scarred hand with the thumb of the other. “I suppose you miss your mother very much.”
She’d grown used to receiving the look of sympathy but didn’t expect it from him. Not now. “Yes, I do.”
“I can only imagine what that must have been like. I was very sorry for you and your family when she died. Still am.”
“That is kind of you.”
“Has the grief lessened with time?”
“A little. The sting has worn off, but the ache is persistent.”
He looked down at his left hand. “I know the feeling.”
“I miss her. That’s part of the reason I write. Characters are good company.”
His half-smiling half-scowling expression returned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Never mind.” She began to cross her arms again, ready for another argument, but he caught her fingertips in his hand. Inside the schoolhouse, the muffled drum counted off a beat and a slower song began.
His face changed and he lifted her hand. “Would you care to dance, Miss Vestal?”
“Thank you, but I don’t want to go back inside yet.”
“I too prefer the space and fresh air out here.” His grin reached his eyes. “It’s tradition that everyone must dance at least once to show a good spirit. I have a good spirit but no dance partner.”
She smiled and mocked a quick curtsy. “I wouldn’t want to hinder your efforts in upholding the tradition, sir.”
All Things Beautiful (Uncharted Beginnings Book 3) Page 6