She slowed her pace as she approached the house. David and Wade flung the back door open, eager to get out of their cravats and waistcoats. The twins raced inside, knocking into each other as they climbed the mudroom steps. Doris twirled once then stood on tiptoe to kiss Christopher’s cheek before walking inside.
Christopher stayed on the stoop, holding the door open for Hannah. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she mumbled.
“You’ve been dragging your feet for days. What’s wrong?”
She turned her face into the wind that blew across the meadow where her mother was buried. The tall grass bent in pulsing waves. In summers past, she imagined it was her mother’s way of waving to her. Not anymore. Her imagination was no longer her friend.
Neither was Henry Roberts.
Christopher tried again. “Does this have anything to do with your candle trade at the print shop the other day?”
She snapped her attention away from the meadow. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I wish you had a mother for these times.”
“I don’t want a mother,” she said as she stopped near the stoop. “I miss my mother.”
“I know, sweet Hannah, I know. I only meant you would benefit from the advice of a woman.” He lowered his chin. “Maybe you should visit Olivia one day this week to have someone to talk to. A feminine perspective. She has the gift of encouragement. She encouraged me after your mother’s passing, and it affected me deeply.”
She shook her head. She didn’t want anyone’s encouragement or any more talk of gifts. She’d taken their advice to use her gift of writing, and with one sharp critique, Henry had drained all the enjoyment out of her only solace—her writing.
She’d also followed Olivia’s advice to take her story to Henry to be printed. Olivia had assured her Henry would be fair—maybe not pleasant but fair, she’d said. Olivia wasn’t to blame for Henry’s behavior; in Olivia’s experience Henry might have been a fair judge of writing. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was a terrible story.
With one breath from someone else’s lungs, her only happiness was gone.
If she didn’t have her writing and she didn’t have her mother, what was left? Cleaning and mending and making candles and soap? Feeding six people who only saw her back as she stood at the stove for hours each day?
The mindless work of the home was all she had. It was the least she could do for her father since she wouldn’t be granting his request and letting him read her story. She had tried to use her writing to bless others, and all she’d done was failed. She’d failed her father and Olivia and her characters… and Henry. Her throat tightened, but she would not cry. Not now. She didn’t look at Christopher as she passed him and stepped into the noisy kitchen.
Chapter Twenty-one
Henry sat between his father and Gabe for the last elders’ meeting of the year. He squelched a yawn as Reverend Colburn gave each elder the floor to address his family’s business. The elders’ firstborn sons sat quietly, observing the ways they were expected to continue one day. After working late into the night at the letterpress for several days, Henry’s mind refused to focus during the tedious meeting.
He would obey the settlement’s rules and fulfill his duty as an elder in Good Springs one day, but it didn’t make sense considering his fate. The purpose of a family’s elder was to represent his family’s business. Henry was doomed to live alone.
Therefore, committing to become an elder was illogical. Thanks to the fire last week, his goal with the New Testament printing was improbable. And his delusion he could love Hannah well and maybe have a family of his own someday was impractical.
Illogical. Improbable. Impractical.
This is what he’d become. A failure. The word was hard to swallow, and it might well be true about him. As Mr. Foster returned to his seat and Reverend Colburn called on Matthew to give an update of the Roberts family’s business, Henry straightened his posture. A failure he might be, but he need not let on in public.
Matthew strode to the front of the room and drew a folded piece of gray leaf paper from his breast pocket. “I’ve traded paper to the McIntoshes for the building of twenty-four drying racks, which has doubled my paper production abilities. I’ll have ample paper supply for the new school year, and should anyone wish to trade for paper, my family is in need of thread, yarn, and cloth.” He glanced up from his paper and chuckled. “My daughters aren’t keen on weaving or spinning.”
Henry didn’t laugh. His sisters had plenty of work to do already. The more workers who specialized in one product like his father had and quickly produced goods, the more the settlement would be free to flourish.
Matthew finished detailing their family’s settlement business and nodded once at Reverend Colburn. Before Matthew could take his seat, the reverend raised his hand. “What about the printing press? Give us an update on Henry’s progress with the New Testament.”
Matthew looked at Henry and scratched his side whiskers. “My son is putting his full effort into the project, working dawn to midnight most days. There was a setback recently, a small fire. But I’m quite sure Henry will meet the challenge.”
The elders glanced at each other at the mention of a fire. Christopher Vestal’s brow furrowed with concern. He asked Matthew, “Was anyone hurt?”
For once Henry was glad he wasn’t being addressed about his own business. If he were, he’d have to answer honestly. Yes, someone was hurt in the incident—not by the blaze but by his attitude.
“No, no,” Matthew answered quickly. “Only a few pages lost. No matter. Henry has already reprinted many of them.”
As Matthew returned to his seat, Christopher looked at Henry. Unable to discern the meaning behind Christopher’s stoic expression, Henry pressed his lips together and turned his gaze to the reverend. Still, he could feel Christopher looking at him.
Did the father of the woman he loved know he’d hurt her feelings? Did Christopher know Hannah had started the fire? Did he know their relationship was ruined?
It didn’t matter anymore.
Henry’s every hope of improving his life went up in the smoke from Hannah’s fire. He wasn’t able to love a woman well. He’d hurt Hannah and didn’t deserve her. It was time he accepted the life of a failure. He would pass the eldership to Simon, sleep on a cot at the back of the print shop, and die alone.
Chapter Twenty-two
By late January, the long summer days of the southern hemisphere were shortening, which suited Hannah just fine. The sooner the day was over, the sooner she could crawl back into bed and escape her misery by sleeping. Gone were her afternoons of dreaming up stories and secretly scribbling notes, her evenings of joy while the anticipation to write built, and her quiet late night writing sessions. Now, without the tourniquet of writing, each day bled into the next like a fatal wound.
Hannah filled a clean bucket at the well then scanned the horizon as she carried the water into the house. The sun sank behind the trees to the west, leaving the sky full of golden clouds stacked to the heavens. The air flowing into the mudroom cooled the kitchen as it blew the heat of cooking out the open front door.
Another dinner eaten, another day gone.
Her family had settled into their evening routine with her father sitting in the parlor reading his Bible, Doris poking at her needlework by the lantern, and the twins playing on the rug with their ever-growing seashell collection. David whittled on the front porch while Wade wrestled with the puppies.
Hannah set the water bucket by the kitchen sink then studied her family. Though they all looked content, the veil of her sadness kept her from joining them.
There was nothing particularly unpleasant about her life. Her family had more than they needed, and she had a good life caring for them. It was in the still moments where she found her mind racing in desperation to change her circumstances while her heart ached too much to do anything about it.
She missed her stories, missed discus
sing her writing with Olivia, missed Henry. Her only companion now was her desperation for escape.
Perhaps God would relieve her suffering and allow her to be inflicted with the same ailment that took her mother’s life, so she could die in her thirties as well. Only a decade to go and she could join her mother in Glory. The morbid thought almost brought happiness—the first twinge of joy she’d felt since Henry had dashed her love of writing and her hope for love.
She untied her apron and stepped out the back door to loosen the crumbs from it. With the first shake of the apron, a folded-up slip of paper flung into the air and landed in the grass near the stoop. She knew better than to open it, but her fingers unfolded it anyway.
Pencil markings covered the page with notes for a love letter she’d planned to have Prince Aric send Adeline in her story. She’d left the vowels out of each word to disguise the meaning in case one of her siblings had found the note and assumed she had written it to a man or a man had written it to her.
That would never happen now.
Ripping the paper again and again, she yearned to feel the way she’d felt when Henry was intrigued with her. He’d never said he loved her, but he’d looked at her like she was captivating. Whatever had been between them was undeniable.
It was care and desire and interest and attraction. And she’d barely had a chance to enjoy it before it was over.
Maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe she’d imagined it too. Maybe she’d been so engrossed in her story she had projected the feelings she created for her characters into real life.
A salty tear slid between her lips as she held the tiny squares of ripped paper in her hands.
No, her feelings for Henry were real.
She’d admired him very much—loved him even. She’d wanted to know everything about him and spend more time with him, even to the point of imagining shirking her promise to her mother. How could she not see it was love before it fell apart?
As she sat on the stoop holding the tiny bits of paper, Wade led the puppies from the front of the house to the barn. A moment later he closed the barn doors and walked back to the house. He eyed her as he passed by and stepped into the mudroom, but she turned her face away. His boots clunked as they hit the floor, then he plodded through the kitchen. At least he didn’t say anything about her crying. Maybe he hadn’t noticed in the low light of nightfall.
Male voices murmured lightly in the parlor at the other end of the kitchen. Then, footsteps descended the mudroom steps behind her. She didn’t look back but closed her cupped hands over the ripped note.
Christopher stepped out to the stoop with his feet bare and closed the door behind him. He sat beside her. Without a word he held an open palm in front of her as a parent does when they expect a child to give them a broken toy.
Tears blurred her vision as she poured the bits of torn paper into her father’s waiting hand.
He closed his fingers over the sad confetti and withdrew a clean handkerchief from his shirt pocket. He kept his caring voice low. “Was this a letter from Henry?”
“No.” She wiped her eyes. “It was for my story.”
He angled his chin. “Are you still writing?”
“No.”
“Are you and Henry still friends?”
“No.”
“Did one affect the other?”
When she said nothing, he turned his face toward the barn across the yard. “I had a feeling.”
“At least you have feelings. Henry doesn’t. I thought he did at first, but he only cares about his printing.”
“He is under tremendous pressure from the elders right now. Reverend Colburn assigned him a task too big for any man.” He nudged her softly. “I’ll let you in on a secret. For the elders, it isn’t so much completing the assignment that matters, but how Henry handles it.”
“He told me about having to print a copy of the New Testament in four months. He seemed busy but confident. Perhaps those characteristics will aide him in his assignment even if they make him a lousy suitor.”
“So he asked you then?”
“Asked me what?”
“To court.”
“We never got that far.” She wished her mother were here to talk to. Her father cared, but how much should she tell him? As a man he might not understand the intricacies of feminine emotion. If he knew Henry had broken her heart, he might become angry with Henry. Or her.
She glanced at his profile. Her father was a man, but he was also a caring man who had raised six children alone. He’d proven his compassion time and again. She blotted her nose and wadded his handkerchief in a tight ball. “I needed Henry’s opinion about something… something that matters a great deal to me. And he was very harsh.”
“Harsh?”
“He ripped out my heart, threw it to the floor, and crushed it with his muddy boot.”
She waited for Christopher’s shocked response. When he said nothing, she looked at him.
His eyes were wide and his lips curved in a half-grin. “Henry did all that, did he?”
“Metaphorically, of course.”
“Of course.” Christopher held the bits of paper in one hand and leaned the other palm behind him on the stoop. “When your mother and I were first courting, before that even, she would get so angry with me over small things. Sometimes, I knew I’d befuddled my words and caused the trouble. Sometimes, I didn’t have an inkling of my wrong. But that didn’t stop her from being upset with me.”
Most of Hannah’s memories of her mother were of an ill and soft-tempered woman. Before Susanna’s illness, her parents had always spoken kindly to one another. “I can’t imagine Mother being ungracious to you.”
Christopher leaned forward. “And that’s just it. When we were courting, I never thought of Susanna as being ungracious. I knew nothing of the ways of women, and so I assumed it was my fault. Granted, I was young and foolish enough it was possible I was wrong in each circumstance.”
He looked up as the first glints of starlight broke through the night sky. “I was happy to take the blame because I loved her.”
Hannah’s heart sank. “Then Henry doesn’t love me. If he did, he would have made amends by now.”
Her father raised a finger. “He has a different temperament than I do and has endured things I never have, so I can’t claim to understand him. I watched him work the ship’s sails for months during our voyage here. No matter the conditions, he was the first man at the ropes and the last man standing in a storm. He helped build most of the houses in this settlement until the accident. And now he works long hours each day at an intricate job with a hand that pains him.” He shook his head. “Henry Roberts is not a man to be judged quickly.”
She huffed. “No matter how quickly he judges?”
Christopher peeled his gaze from the stars. “Did he judge you harshly, Hannah, or did he give you the honest opinion you asked for?”
“Well, yes, but…” She couldn’t tell her father this was about her writing without explaining she’d taken her story to be printed for his birthday. It would only sadden her father to know she’d failed him. “I feel as though he betrayed me.”
“Did he?”
“He led me to believe I had a chance at something.”
“A chance and a promise are two different things. Did he give you a chance at whatever this was?”
“Yes.”
“So, he didn’t mislead you?”
“Well, no.”
Christopher’s voice came in a near whisper. “The reason your mother and I kept courting was that she forgave me after every time she’d been upset with me. We were young and immature and her complaints against me were petty. But still the grace of God ruled in her heart and was growing in her to where each time we fought she forgave me quicker. Soon, she realized I truly loved her and she no longer became upset with me easily. Our courtship was difficult, but it was worth it. By the time we were married, she’d learned not to let the little things matter too much and not to let the
right things matter too little.”
She traced a finger in the dirt beside her feet and imagined Henry asking her for forgiveness. What would she want him to apologize for? For giving her his opinion of her writing when she’d asked him to? For not liking her story? Those weren’t personal affronts. “Perhaps I’m like my mother.”
“More than you will ever know.” Christopher smiled. “I believe Henry to be a wise man or I wouldn’t have given him my permission to court you. Try to put aside your anger and think about what upset you. It usually isn’t the incorrect judgments that offend us, but those that contain some truth. Was there any truth to his words?”
Henry told her the story’s ending was trite and illogical and she hadn’t given it enough thought. She’d stayed up all night writing it and had been so excited to see Henry she hadn’t taken her pages to Olivia to be edited, as she normally did… as she’d promised she would… as she should have.
Perhaps Henry was right.
The manuscript was tucked inside her desk drawer where it had remained untouched since their argument. Maybe she should reread those last few pages. What if Henry was only pushing her to work harder, to make the story better? She had reacted badly, ran out like a child, and buried her talent in the drawer.
Buried in a drawer, not buried in a grave. Since she was still breathing, God wanted her here. Though night had fallen, the surrounding darkness seemed to lift. She wiped her final tears and faced her father. “Henry’s opinion was harsh but honest. And yes, I asked for it, so I shouldn’t have faulted him. I fear our relationship is beyond repair now.”
Christopher poured the little bits of paper back into her hand. “If he loves you, nothing is beyond repair.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
Her father gave her shoulder a squeeze as he stood. “Then the experience will give you something to write about.”
After her father went inside, she looked up at the stars and prayed if God wanted her to write, He would rescue her from this despair.
All Things Beautiful (Uncharted Beginnings Book 3) Page 14