Chapter Eleven
Henry paced to the print shop’s open door for the third time this morning. Mr. Foster had promised that by nine o’clock he would deliver the soot he’d collected. Henry held a clay pint jar full of walnut oil and gave it a stir as he leaned out the doorway to check the road.
There was plenty of activity in the village for a Friday morning, but no Mr. Foster. Mrs. Colburn was walking to the chapel with her three youngest children in tow. She had a tin lunch pail dangling by the handle from her lace-cuffed wrist. Mr. Owens drove his buckboard past. One squeaky wheel joint begged for grease. Mr. Owens nodded a greeting to Henry as his horse pulled the wagon down the road.
Henry blew out a frustrated breath as he stepped back to his letterpress. The type was set, but he had no ink. Why had he thought he could complete such a daunting task as printing a copy of the New Testament in a few months? Maybe he could do it if his work weren’t dependent on other people. The men in the village were keeping their promise to supply him with all that he needed—including the ingredients for his ink recipe—but they weren’t in a hurry like he was.
He picked up one of the two unused candles left from his trade with Hannah. He needed more candles but didn’t want to go to her, not because of the note of warning someone had written him but because of the feelings stirred by the dance they’d shared.
He’d only seen her on Sundays at church over the two weeks since the dance, and they hadn’t spoken. Both weeks he’d sat with his parents on the third pew and she’d sat on the back row flanked by siblings. Her family had left before he could come up with a reason to approach.
He stretched the bones in his half-hand to relieve its stiffness. Maybe this Sunday he would muster the courage to speak to Hannah. No, he had to remove all amorous thoughts of her from his mind. She needed a book printed and he needed candles. A simple exchange of goods was all there was between them and all there could ever be.
Alas, footsteps approached the doorway. He turned, expecting to see Mr. Foster. Instead, he was greeted by the scornful pout of Miss Cecelia Foster. She held up a covered jar and leveled her gaze on him. “Father said you needed soot.”
Henry took the jar and matched her glower. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank my father. He scraped the chimney this morning.”
“I will thank him next time I see him.” He set the jar on his worktable, avoiding eye contact with the woman he’d once adored. “Thank you, all the same. Good day, Miss Foster.”
Cecelia didn’t leave.
He flicked a glance at her. “Was there something else?”
She crossed her thin arms tightly over her flower-printed bodice. “I see you haven’t changed.”
He eyed her from nose to knees and back up. “Nor have you.”
Cecelia beaded her pretty eyes. “When I heard you’d been given the print shop, I thought maybe it would mature your manners, but I was wrong.”
“Something you should be used to by now.”
“What?”
“Being wrong.”
“Arrogant fool!” She stomped a step closer. “I was heartbroken when you didn’t ask to court me last year after all that pursuit, but now I’m grateful. You saved me from a lifetime of aggravation and hurt. Not that we ever would have married.”
“We would if you’d had your way.”
She shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t have married you. I see that clearly now. And you know why?”
He didn’t dignify her captious question with an answer. He’d quickly discovered he didn’t want a life with Cecelia Foster and her emotional vicissitudes. He looked away but she continued unabated. “Because you are incapable of loving anyone but yourself, Henry Roberts.”
At that his fingers curled into his palms, blanching his knuckles. The modicum of truth in her summation carved his heart from his chest. He wasn’t capable of loving a woman enough to make a relationship worthwhile.
He too was relieved it hadn’t worked out between him and Cecelia. He hadn’t thought it would ever matter, that he’d ever try to love again, but now he found himself longing for Hannah more each day. He shouldn’t. Eventually he would hurt her too. Cecelia was right.
He busied himself with the utensils on the worktable, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of knowing she was riling him. “I said good day, Miss Foster.”
She propped her bony wrists on her hips and acerbic words slithered from her tongue. “Fine. You may dismiss me, Henry, but I will not forget what you did.”
“I’m sorry my existence offends you.”
“You led me on.”
“I apologized.”
“I deserve better.”
His patience ended. “You will get nothing else from me.”
She huffed and spun on her heel. He stared down at the utensils on the worktable. When he was sure she had left, he looked up. Though she played the victim, Cecelia Foster had the gumption to recover from their failed relationship. She would love again. Still, he regretted how he’d kept her affections alive even after his had fizzled. He could not do that to Hannah. She was different, vulnerable, already wrapped in grief.
It was the way she differed from other women that enchanted him. She was as passionate as the dramatic girls, but her passion usually stayed tucked beneath a shroud of loneliness. He wanted to peel it back as he had when they argued, just to see the way the fire lit her eyes. The dance they shared had proven that if he stoked the flame, she would respond.
If only they could have another quiet moment together, he could find out more about her. Maybe she was the one woman in the Land he could love. Maybe she would see past his scarred hand and find his heart worth loving. But what if, after all that, she annoyed him or found his logic insulting or made demands he couldn’t meet?
He couldn’t bear the guilt if she fell in love with him and his love ran out. Then again, she might surprise him; she already had many times. She might keep her wits about her. He might be the one to lose himself. She might discover who he really was and reject him. From that he might never recover, but he could no longer deny his need to find out.
Chapter Twelve
Mist droplets floated into the air, making the granite slab behind the waterfall appear to move. The rock face was more stalwart than the soldiers who guarded Prince Aric’s palace. Hannah toed off her shoes and lowered her satchel of freshly written pages to the ground. Adeline would love this place.
Hannah padded through the wet moss until she stood at the edge of a cool stone ledge. She crouched down and dipped one finger into the clear water that ran past her rocky perch. Maybe she should write a scene at a spring like this, just for Adeline. Every woman needed a place of solace in nature where she could be alone now and then.
The spring water that showered over the waterfall and fed this rippling pool had inspired more than the name of Hannah’s village; it fueled her writing and stilled her soul. It was here by the water’s edge that she’d come after her mother’s burial, and here where—over the years—she’d wiped her tears and stared up at the wide blue sky above, praying for the strength to keep her promise.
Above the ten-foot drop of the fall, water burbled beneath the surface as it rushed out of the earth. The constant hum and flow of water matched the activity in her imagination. Yet in the midst of all that swirled in her mind, she found peace on these rocks and in her story. The combination of writing while being at the springs was the closest thing to Heaven she could imagine ever finding on Earth.
Sometimes during the winter months, she found shelter from the wind and mist in the rocks behind the waterfall. She studied the shadow of the shallow cave where she’d spent many chilly afternoons, sitting in its alcove, safely hidden from the elements. That seemed to be the place where she always wrote romantic prose, as if her story flourished most when she was least visible. It was difficult to get to the cave behind the waterfall without getting misted, but it was worth it. Her feet had memorized the path over th
e years.
No matter where she chose to write at the springs, within the hour, she had to go back to her family’s house, back to her promise. Her daily routine was fixed in a perpetual state of chore and challenge while rearing her siblings, so she clung to Aric and Adeline’s story as if God had given it to her to replace the freedom she’d lost when her mother died. Writing was her escape, her serenity, her expression of life and love and God’s redemptive plan, but at her father’s request and Olivia’s suggestion, she would soon allow a stranger into her private world.
Henry Roberts wasn’t really a stranger; they’d lived near each other since their families had settled in this uncharted land. But she’d kept busy at home and he’d spent his years in the print shop, so they hadn’t interacted often. She had spoken to him more in the past three weeks than she had in the entire eight years they’d been neighbors. What little she’d learned about him hadn’t eased her mind about him reading her story.
It wasn’t that she feared he would break her trust by telling someone about her story, thereby ruining her inner retreat, but that he might judge her writing inadequate, or as he’d put it, unworthy of ink.
She raised her skirt and sat on the slippery rock, plunging her feet into the refreshing water flowing past. Leaning her palms behind her, she raised her face to the canopy of trees that blocked the afternoon sun. Just as its warm rays could freckle skin this time of year but thaw ice in winter, so Henry Roberts had proven to be a complex mixture of harm and help. His defensive arrogance during their quarrels had melted when they danced, showing he did possess pleasantness—though not much sentiment—beneath his impatient surface.
Their dance had sparked something not in her heart but in her imagination. She would never admit to him how he’d ignited her story, energizing it to near completion. All that was left was deciding on the ending—for she favored a happy one—then the dreaded edits and revisions.
But she didn’t have to think about editing right now, or any of her responsibilities. She had half an hour before she needed to be back in the kitchen preparing her family’s dinner.
The gentle flow of clear water around her feet and the breeze that rustled gray leaf trees overhead lulled her to close her eyes. Water drops pattered the rocks near the fall, and songbirds called to each other from the limbs above. As she drew in a long breath of the rich, earthy air, her shoulders relaxed. The water soothed her skin, swirling between her toes and over her ankles. The sound of it lapping at the rock beneath her cleansed her mind. As she hummed a contented sigh, the murmur of men’s voices jostled her from her peace.
Her eyelids sprang open.
She scanned the waterfall to her left, the opposite edge of the pool, and the stream leaving the pool to her right, but saw no one. She drew her feet out of the water and stood, shaking out her skirt to cover her bare legs.
The voices grew louder as laughing men approached through the forest. Stretching her neck, she peered around the tall tussock grass. A blur of dark pants and light shirts moved beyond the thicket as the men grew closer on the path. Soon, their faces came into view.
Mr. Roberts, Simon, and Henry stopped short when they saw her. The ends of fishing poles wobbled overhead from their abrupt halt. Their grins faded as their amused time together was jarred by her presence. The men exchanged an uncertain glance.
Mr. Matthew Roberts touched his wide-brimmed hat in greeting. “Afternoon, Miss Vestal,” the older man said, his kind smile puffing his chop-shaped side whiskers.
She slid her wet feet into her shoes, which had warmed in a shard of sunlight that broke through the canopy. “Good afternoon, Mr. Roberts. Simon. Henry.”
Simon nodded politely then looked at his father, as if waiting for a cue to whether they should stay even though their destination was occupied. Henry stood a pace behind his father and brother with the top half of his face obscured by the rim of his gray felt hat and the clean-shaven bottom half stoic. The thin shadow between his lips was set in an unreadable straight line.
She eyed Henry for a moment. Why hadn’t he responded when she said hello? Since the dance, she’d only seen him at church in passing. Perhaps he didn’t feel friendly toward her despite what she thought was growth in their friendship. His gaze was fixed on her. He didn’t nod or smile or speak.
Trying not to be offended, she lifted her satchel’s strap from the ground before any more could be said. “I was just leaving.” She returned Mr. Roberts’s warm smile. “Enjoy your fishing, gentlemen.”
Henry stepped out of his father’s shadow. “Allow me to walk you home.”
Both of the other men snapped their faces toward Henry. Mr. Roberts glanced between Henry and Hannah for one confused moment before understanding dawned in his eyes. He cleared his throat. “No need to leave on our account, Miss Vestal. The fishing’s usually no good up here. Simon and I were headed downstream.”
Henry gave his father an incredulous look, but Mr. Roberts ignored it and took Henry’s pole from him. “Catch up to us when you can, son.” He walked on, leading Simon along the stream.
Hannah watched their backs until they were out of sight. She half hoped they would come back so she wouldn’t be left alone with Henry and half hoped Henry would ask her to dance to the music of the waterfall.
Henry stood silently rubbing his scarred palm with the thumb of the other hand, studying her. “Were you really leaving?”
“To accommodate you all.”
“So I thought. We disturbed your solitude.” He stepped closer. Fallen twigs and flattened grass crackled underfoot. He pointed at the forest path where it descended the slope. “From up there, you looked perfectly content. I spotted you before you heard Simon and my father’s jollity. I’ve never seen you look so… content.”
He must have spotted her sitting on the rock and dangling her feet in the water without her knowing anyone was near. Her cheeks warmed. She turned her face to the waterfall and threaded the satchel strap between her fingers. “This is my favorite place in the settlement.”
“Mine too.” His voice grew closer as he crossed the path to stand beside her. He took off his hat. “If I ever wanted to build a house in the Land, it would be here.”
“Please don’t. This place shouldn’t belong to any one man.”
The tree shadows covered him, making his reddish hair seem brown, but the light reflecting off the water brightened his irises to a haunting crystalline blue. The clarity of his eyes and the intensity of his gaze caught her by surprise. If she looked long enough, she might see his soul.
And she wanted to.
The thought shook her more than his captivating stare. How could she be attracted to this man who doubted he would enjoy her writing? To this man who had judged her story unworthy of ink before reading a word of it?
Try as she might, no recollection of his off-putting behavior made the awakening feelings go away. Standing there beside the water with sunlight flitting through the canopy, she forgot about her story and her responsibilities and her grief. All that existed was Henry Roberts and his unrelenting gaze.
“I wouldn’t,” he said at last.
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Build a house here. Try to claim this land.” He opened a palm toward the waterfall and broke his stare with a satisfied grin. “You’re right: the springs belong to the village. No one will build a house here, not as long as my father and I are on the council. I only meant that if it were possible to live here, it would be delightful.”
“Oh,” she said on a thoughtless breath, still shaken by the deluge of feelings pumping out of her heart. “Delightful, indeed.”
He combed his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face. “How is the water?”
“Perfect.”
He lifted his feet one at a time and removed his shoes and socks. “Since you don’t have to leave, do you mind if I join you?” he asked as he rolled his trouser cuffs up to his knees.
His sudden joviality intrigued her, and s
eeing as how he was preparing to hang his feet in the water rather than walk her home, she gave heed to his confidence. Part of her wanted to balk at his presumption and leave him there alone, but her feet were already out of her shoes. She returned to the edge of the gurgling pool and sat.
Henry lowered himself to the slippery rock beside her. He sighed. “It would make a lovely back yard though, wouldn’t it?”
She considered what it might be like if her family’s house had been built here instead of a half-mile away. “For a while, but eventually, I’d need some place to go to get away from everything. I suppose if my family lived here, I’d escape to somewhere else.”
He pointed to the shadow behind the waterfall. “There is a little cave back there.”
“Yes, it has sheltered me many times.” Though she felt him face her, she kept her eyes forward and watched a dragonfly hover over the water’s rippling surface. “I come here to write on Sunday afternoons but only if the girls are occupied and father doesn’t need me at home.”
He glanced at her satchel, which was on the ground behind them. “If this place is your inspiration, then I look forward to reading your story.”
The kindness in his voice made her breath catch, but the weight of his words—that he would read hers—caused a ping of regret. She had to remember why she was pushing herself to finish her story and subjecting her private world to outside scrutiny. “It’s all for my father. He will be so pleased if I can present him with a bound copy of the story for his birthday. My mother would have been proud too. Perhaps it’s more for her.”
“It’s an excellent way to honor her memory.”
The conversation had taken a sadder tone than she intended, but sitting beside him on the stone by the babbling water, she could say anything to him. “I honor her every day by taking care of my family. I try to, at least. Lately, I’ve been writing so much at night that I’m sleepwalking through my days. I’ve never been happier with my writing, but I feel like I’m failing at my promise.”
All Things Beautiful (Uncharted Beginnings Book 3) Page 8