He chuckled. “Then dance with me.” Still grinning, he placed his left hand on the small of her back and held her hand with his right. “You shall not regret it.”
She lightly touched his shoulder, keeping her elbow up, as he led the dance across the sandy soil. Stray blades of grass tickled her skin as her skirts swished over the ground. Hopeful starlight shone around them, and the music spilled through the schoolhouse wall. With each pulse of the third beat, their feet rotated the box step movement. Gravel crackled underfoot, but the uneven turf was no match for his confidence.
Perhaps there was more to Henry Roberts than she’d realized.
All at once, her story flooded her mind. The solution to her plot problem was not in how Adeline met Prince Aric, but in why. Details of the air, the sky, the scents of ocean and earth swam through her imagination. Her characters’ faces were as crisp as anyone she knew, as were their hopes and needs and wounds.
Everything she’d been trying to force in her story fell away as she danced with Henry in the darkened schoolyard. It was as if the sudden reality of this new experience permeated the fictional world that lurked beneath the surface of her mind, making both equally real to her at once. One reality she could touch and smell, but the other might dissolve into nothingness if she didn’t concentrate on memorizing every detail. Why hadn’t she brought a pencil and paper?
If she kept Adeline and Aric’s faces before her mind and the fulfillment in their hearts as they came together, she would remember it all when she was able to write later tonight. While she focused on her characters’ world, the energy of the surrounding reality slipped and took the joy of the fictive dream with it. Somehow she had to concentrate on both the world around her and the world inside her mind.
Listening to the music, their footsteps, and Henry’s breath as he led the dance, she absorbed the warmth of his hand on her back, the sureness in his movements, and the palpable tension between them. Her eyes closed and she envisioned Adeline and Aric meeting, loving, hating, needing, protecting themselves and each other, fighting, giving up, and finally giving in.
It was all there somehow mixed in the reality flowing around her and the story coming to life within her. It was as though none of it existed but all of it had always been, and somehow it was because of Henry Roberts.
* * *
Henry held Hannah’s soft hand in his and led their moonlit dance across the sandy yard. As he stepped in time with the music that bled through the north wall of the schoolhouse, his mother’s dance instructions echoed in his mind. Keep your partner close enough to feel your movement but not so close as to seem improper. That hadn’t been a problem when he was being taught to dance in the parlor of their home and his sisters had been his partners. This was different.
Hannah smelled like flowers and soap, and her body heat warmed his palm. Could she feel the difference in his hand—nubs instead of the last two fingers? Was she thinking about it? Repulsed by it?
She was a delicate young woman, lonely and overworked, who missed her mother. She was also a passionate writer who bubbled with ideas and insecurities. And for some reason, she’d agreed to dance with him.
She’d also danced with his half-wit of a brother, so maybe she simply enjoyed dancing, just as she’d claimed.
Maybe this meant nothing to her. And it shouldn’t mean anything to him no matter if he felt more hope and happiness than he had in years. Feelings couldn’t be trusted. That’s why God gave man logic to corral wayward feelings.
Still, he felt something irrepressible.
Why should he feel anything? She was only allowing him one dance. Even if she learned to keep her illogical jabbering to herself, he wouldn’t ask her for more than this one dance. He couldn’t. If he tried to get to know her, he wouldn’t like her. If he found himself loving her, he’d only hurt her. Women were too sensitive, too irrational.
The unease and longing he felt was rooted in pity, perhaps even sympathy. He’d witnessed her at her mother’s burial years ago and still felt the weight of tragedy when he saw her. She deserved to be loved by someone who would protect her and not ruin her. He was too harsh for such a fragile creature.
Her hand was warm in his, her skin smooth, unscarred. She was far too sweet to find him anything but caustic. He didn’t need the scrutiny of another woman. He had tried before. They were all the same. Smiles and shy glances led to demands and crying.
And then there were the demands he placed on himself for what he could not give a woman. The unreliable strength in his scarred hand wouldn’t allow him to build or farm or hunt the way the other men did.
The song ended, and their feet stilled on the sandy soil. He loosened his grip, but Hannah didn’t let go of his hand. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. He hadn’t realized she’d closed them. She hadn’t simply danced with him; she had trusted him.
The hand he’d held against her back hovered there, barely touching the fabric of her dress. He didn’t want to trap her but felt less inclined to pull away with every second she stayed near. Why was this private and beautiful woman not retreating from him?
There were certainly more handsome men, more prosperous. He was an impaired printer with eight ink stained fingers. He had smirked at her trade requests and scoffed at her talent, yet she hadn’t fled. Even now, without music or provocation, she stayed close and had yet to let go.
He hoped she never would.
He studied her starlit features from her high cheekbones to the shadowed dip above her mouth, trying to memorize every line and curve in case he never saw her like this again. After a long moment, he lowered their joined hands. “Thank you, Miss Vestal.”
Her words flowed out on a breath. “It was my pleasure.”
Her gaze flicked to his mouth, but he denied the urge to wet his lips. Every fiber in his being yearned to kiss her, but he had no right. Though attracted, even intrigued by Hannah Vestal, he didn’t love her enough to offer the kind of commitment she would expect after a kiss. However, he did love her enough as a neighbor—and maybe even as a friend—to protect her from himself.
He watched her lips as he pulled away. She gave no hint of wanting to be kissed, but her unmoving stance seemed like an invitation. Though he should have moved back, his body refused. How had she entranced him with a look?
The schoolhouse door opened again. Voices and lamplight flooded out. Hannah promptly let go of his hand and clasped her wrists in front of her. “Good evening, Mr. Roberts,” she said as she turned and strode back into the schoolhouse.
Chapter Ten
Hannah set her pencil on the kitchen table and rubbed the cramp that had formed between her thumb and forefinger. Two hours straight of writing was good for the soul but bad for the hands. She leaned her head against the top slat of the ladder-back chair and closed her fatigue-laden eyes. It was too early in the afternoon to be this tired, but that’s what she got for staying up late to write every night for a week.
The twins’ muffled voices mixed with her father’s and Doris’s outside as they approached the house. Hannah hid her pages under a tea towel and tied on her apron. Her father opened the back door and her three sisters stepped into the mudroom. The quiet kitchen filled with the cacophony of family.
“Those are my shells!” Minnie yelled, as she grabbed at the seashells in Ida’s cupped hands.
“Now, girls, we gathered plenty for you to share,” Christopher said in an authoritative but kind tone. “Doris, help them take the shells to the parlor, please.”
Hannah followed her squabbling sisters. She knelt on the parlor rug and picked dried seagrass out of Minnie’s curls. “How was your time at the beach?”
“We saw a jellyfish!” Ida squealed.
“I hope you didn’t touch it.” She looked through the kitchen at Christopher. “Did you catch anything for dinner?”
Her father was still on the stoop, shaking the sand out of his cuffs. He held up a line with several fresh fish hanging from it and winked at her.
Doris pulled more shells out of Minnie’s dress pocket. “You should have come with us, Hannah. It was lovely.”
“Quite so.” Christopher walked inside, wearing the red wool socks Hannah had knitted for him last Christmas. She’d planned to make everyone in the family a new pair of socks for Christmas again this year. With only a month until the holiday, she needed to start knitting soon.
Her father squeezed her shoulder with a sandy hand. “Did you enjoy your afternoon alone?”
“Quite so.” She repeated him then glanced out the window. “Where are David and Wade?”
“Went to play cards with the Ashton boys. They’ll be back in time for dinner.”
“Cards? On a Sunday?”
Christopher turned to the cabinet and took out a boning knife. “What does Sunday have to do with playing cards?”
“Seems sacrilegious.”
Christopher flashed her a grin. “You’ve read that book from Olivia with the medieval tales too many times, haven’t you?”
“I suppose so.” Hannah glanced at the table where her freshly written pages were hiding beneath the towel. “Since the girls are occupied and you are frying fish for dinner, would you mind if I go out for a while?”
Christopher grinned. “To go to the springs to write?”
“No, I’m done writing for the day,” she whispered. “I’d like to ride Zelda over to Olivia and Gabe’s house. I wanted to ask Olivia to read my new pages,” she lifted her chin toward the parlor where the girls were arguing over the seashells, “without a crowd.”
He nodded. “Of course. Biscuits with dinner?”
“Already made a batch.” With renewed vigor, she gathered her papers from the table and stuffed them in her old school satchel. Slinging the strap over her shoulder, she pulled on her boots then grabbed a rope from a hook by the back door.
She hurried toward the pasture, hoping to harness her favorite of the family’s two horses and saddle the mare in the barn before any of her siblings saw her preparing to leave. Zelda stood beneath a gray leaf tree, eating grass. The horse’s brown and white mane parted revealing her big black eyes. When the mare spotted Hannah, she trotted toward the fence, flies swarming about her grassy mouth. Though the horse belonged to the family, she thought of Zelda as hers.
She led Zelda into the hay-scented barn to be brushed and saddled, talking all the while. No one was outside. Still, she kept her voice quiet. “I made all the changes to my story—everything that came to mind after the dance last week. Adeline’s character is much stronger now, as is the plot. Instead of meeting Prince Aric by accident and falling in love, now she is on a mission. After being shipwrecked on a sandbar, our heroine swims to shore, escaping her captors. She finds her way to the palace to tell the king about being taken by force from her homeland and how the slave traders have been terrorizing her country.
“Adeline intends to ask the king to help her return to her homeland, but as she is telling him about the slave traders and the atrocities she witnessed aboard their vessel, she feels compelled to ask him not only to help her but also to command his navy to patrol the sea to stop the rash of kidnappings.”
Hannah tightened the leather saddle straps then led Zelda out of the barn and hoisted herself onto the horse. “The intoxicated king refuses Adeline’s request, saying she is a servant girl who has gone mad. He dismisses her from court. While the guards are escorting her to the gates, a prince is riding toward the palace, flanked by soldiers and wearing royal attire. Adeline begs him to hear her. The prince stops the guards and allows Adeline to tell her story. At first, she expects the prince to be just like his father, but he believes her. Prince Aric introduces himself and says he can take her to a safe place. He offers his hand to pull her onto his horse, and they ride off to a monastery.”
Hannah stopped talking as she rode Zelda past the house. She held both reins loosely in one hand and petted Zelda’s smooth hair with the other. Being on her horse was almost as freeing as writing. Once they were on the road, she gently kicked Zelda, sending her into a trot. “We made it past our own palace guards, Zee.”
They were alone on the tree-lined road. Afternoon sunrays seeped between the gray leaf trees overhead, highlighting the dust that swam in the air. With no one around, she imagined she was an emissary racing between European villages with a secret delivery. Zelda’s hoofbeats clopped the road with urgency.
Hannah glanced at the Roberts’ house as she passed and was instantly snapped out of her fantasy. Mrs. Roberts was sitting on the front porch, so Hannah waved and wondered if Henry were home. Surely he wouldn’t be working at the press on a Sunday, though he’d said his current project would take all of his waking hours for months.
She wanted to see him again. After the dance last week, she’d been filled with inspiration. The creative energy had yet to wane, and she already wanted more. Why had their dance given her a jolt of inspiration?
At first, she’d thought doing something different somewhere different with someone new had brought it on, but it was more than that. Being alone with Henry outside at night had brought a sense of secrecy, intimacy even, that she’d never experienced before. They had been in the midst of Good Springs, surrounded by their community yet hidden.
Beyond secrecy, the fire that burned during their quarrel had changed the moment Henry took her hand. The simple, sweet gesture meant nothing and everything all at once. Surely he wasn’t intrigued with her; he acted like he found her impetuous. And she certainly wasn’t intrigued with him. He was proud and harsh and spent way too much time with his precious letterpress.
Still, she thought about Henry as she rode into the village and turned by the chapel to follow the path to Olivia’s house. She slowed Zelda’s pace so they could enjoy the beauty of the woods that led down toward the big stream. Before they reached the water, the house Gabe had built for Olivia years ago came into view. With its painted door, stately gables, and cutaway shutters, it looked like something out of a story book.
Gabe was in the yard tossing a baseball with their three-year-old. Little Daniel looked like the perfect blend of his parents. He had Olivia’s straight black hair and Gabe’s dimpled smile.
“Hello,” she called to them as she pulled on the reins, stopping Zelda.
Gabe handed the ball to Daniel then smiled at Hannah. “Good afternoon, Miss Vestal.”
She swung down from the saddle and pointed at Daniel. “He’s good at playing catch.”
“We’re working on his pitch.” Gabe chuckled and took the reins. “I’ll tie Zelda up by the barn. Olivia is in the house. You can go in.”
As she opened the door, she could hear the rhythmic thuds of a butter churn. A pot of venison stew sweetened the air. A leaning stack of Daniel’s wooden toy blocks adorned the parlor floor.
“Shoes off, young man!” Olivia called out before she looked up from the churn. “Oh sorry, Hannah. I thought Daniel was coming inside again.”
“Is this a bad time?”
“Not at all.” Olivia released the plunger and wiped her sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. “I was hoping you would come to visit soon.”
Hannah opened her satchel and drew out the freshly written pages. “I had a burst of creative energy this week and completely rewrote the first half of the story. I’m thrilled with where the plot is going.”
Olivia drew her head back and smiled. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you say that.”
“Something has changed. I truly feel like this is the story I was meant to tell.” She fidgeted once her hands were empty. Her fingertips tingled with misplaced excitement. “You don’t have to read it right now. I need to get home before dinner. I was just so happy about the story, I had to share it with you.”
Olivia pressed the papers to her chest. “Well, I’m looking forward to reading it.” She tilted her head. “Would this new inspiration have anything to do with Henry Roberts?”
Hannah hadn’t told anyone about the private dance they h
ad shared and was sure they had gone unseen. How could Olivia know? Had Henry been intrigued? Maybe he told Gabe who told Olivia? Did the whole village know about their dance? It was an inspiring moment and maybe romantic, but she wasn’t intrigued with him. She tried to keep her expression neutral but her face warmed. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Having the story printed and bound for your father’s birthday. Did you go to ask Henry about it?”
“Oh, that.” A nervous chuckled escaped her throat. “Yes, I did.”
“Well?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “He said he would have to read it first. If he approves of the story, he will print it in exchange for candles.”
“If he approves?” Olivia chortled. “That’s our Henry.”
“I cringe at the thought of him reading it.”
“Try not to worry about the future. It certainly won’t help today. I’m proud of you for going to him. That had to be difficult for you.” She nestled the papers into a writing box atop her desk then closed the box and patted it. “I’ll keep your pages safe until I can read them.”
“Thank you.”
“It will take longer than usual for me; you wrote a great deal in a week.”
“I’ve never been so inspired in all my life.”
“Hold onto whatever sparked that inspiration for as long as you can.”
Hannah’s eyes felt heavy. She yawned and covered her mouth. “I will but I cannot keep writing so late at night—into the morning hours really—not with the children and the house to take care of.”
“I understand. During the school year, I’m often grading papers from when Daniel goes to bed until midnight.”
“How do you find time for everything?”
“It’s a matter of sticking to your priorities and knowing when to ask others for help. Gabe often takes care of Daniel in the evenings so I can get housework done.” Little Daniel smacked the back door, trying to push it open. Olivia flashed Hannah a grin as she went to let her son into the kitchen. “Of course, it doesn’t always work out like I hope. Maybe things will be different for you.”
All Things Beautiful (Uncharted Beginnings Book 3) Page 7