“I see.” Papa nodded slowly.
Wonderful. It was apparent by Charles’s words that something had happened between them, and now he was all but admitting it to Papa.
“So we guide together. As a team.” Charles ignored the awkward emotion that circled the room. “We forgo canoeing on the river, and we simplify what we offer.”
“Fishing is enough to draw folks?” Papa sounded doubtful.
Abby finished straightening the painting and composing herself. “I don’t think it is.”
Charles waved his hand in disagreement. “It is. Think of it, Abby.” His attention turned on her full force caused her horrid blush to return. She could feel its betraying warmth. He noticed, and the corner of his mouth where his toothpick still somehow lodged as he talked, turned up in a smile. “Your nymph. The new fly. You said yourself it’s unique to you. That’s what we advertise. We tell folks we offer fly-fishing excursions with new, never-used fly designs.”
“But the trout are in the streams, not so much in the river. People come here for the river. For the white water. For the big fish.” Abby’s protest seemed to resonate with her father’s, for Papa nodded in agreement.
Charles shook his head. “How many fish did I catch, Abby?”
She swallowed. “One.”
“And how big was it?”
“About eight inches.”
“And was I upset when that’s all I caught? Did I ever give up fly-fishing in the stream? Did I complain once that we weren’t going after the big fish?”
“No, but I assumed it was because—” She stopped. No need to finish her thought that Charles stayed only because she was a female he wanted to charm.
He grinned. “One could say my guide was pretty.”
Papa cleared his throat.
Charles hurried on. “But there’s something about fly-fishing that makes a man want to keep trying. It’s strategic. It’s an art. Like your painting, Abby. Certain strokes, patterns, the way the brush falls on the canvas. It’s the same with fly-fishing. You cannot underestimate what you have here. It’s not all about conquering the large muskie or bass. A man could love the hunt of fly-fishing, the creation around the streams, the—the colors of the trout.”
“Wait.” Papa held up his hand. “So you’re saying, the river is only the canvas, but the stream and the fly-fishing, they’re the details to our outfitting?”
Charles nodded, light entering his eyes now that Papa seemed to be grasping the idea. “That, and Abby’s flies. Home-tied patterns. You can’t buy those in Milwaukee. People will pay a mint for them. I’ll be along to add conversation. Abby can focus on what she does best, and I’ll be the host.”
“Can’t argue that.” Papa nodded. Then his brows furrowed. “But what about your future? In Milwaukee?”
Charles ducked his head. He drew in a breath and exhaled. “I’ve no desire to return to my father’s business. Or the blame. The guilt.” He met Abby’s eyes. “There’s healing here. Now that I’m finding it, I want to stay.”
The earth was dewy; a low fog drifted through the trees, floating over the underbrush toward the river. Abby rested on a wooden stool, Harold perched on her lap, his bushy tail waving back and forth as if bidding her farewell.
“You’re leaving me, aren’t you?” she whispered. She could sense it. Each day Harold had returned later and later. A part of her wished she’d continued the habit of locking him in the cabin, but the restlessness in the squirrel’s eyes burrowed into her heart. He had healed. He needed to be free.
She reached out her finger and Harold nudged it with his nose and then scampered off her lap. The rustle of his body through the leaves and over sticks carried for a moment and then disappeared. With that, Harold was gone. Perhaps he’d return.
“You said goodbye?” Charles crouched beside her and they both stared into the brush where Harold had hurried off in search of nuts. Charles’s words held so many layers, Abby didn’t reply.
Goodbye? She’d never really said goodbye to her mother. Maybe that was the next part in healing, toward her freedom.
“Have you?” she whispered.
“No,” he admitted. Charles shifted his body so he sat on the ground, his knees up and his forearms resting lazily on top of them. “But I will. Someday.”
Abby gave him a sideways glance. “You will?”
He shrugged. “We have to, don’t we?” His eyes bored into hers. Abby didn’t look away this time. What she saw was understanding, concern, and maybe hints of more.
Charles reached out and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I hear there’s always a time to let go.”
“Like I let go of Harold?” She leaned into his hand and Charles trailed his palm down her cheek before letting go.
He nodded. “Like Harold.”
They sat in silence together, both gazing deep into the woods. Their woods now. In a few short weeks, Charles had transitioned from unwelcome interloper, to charmer, to enemy, and then … to friend. And now?
“What’s next?” Abby mumbled, half aware that she said it aloud.
Charles chewed his trademark toothpick for a moment. “Well, I’ll need to get word to Jonathon that your father agreed to my plan for the fly-fishing outfitters.”
“No.” Abby had to be honest. “I didn’t mean that.” Although it was a relief to know they wouldn’t be leaving this beloved haven.
Charles shifted toward her. Question furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?”
She couldn’t ask it. Not really. It was too personal, too exposing, and too soon. She blinked to break their gazes. It didn’t work.
“Abby.” Charles repositioned to his knees and knelt in front of her where she sat frozen on her stool. “What’s next for us is to continue on. For your mama, for David, and for … each other.”
He leaned forward and intertwined his fingers with hers. The earnestness in his expression made all his charm and flirtation drift away to expose the sensitive soul burrowed deep inside of him.
“Together?” Abby whispered.
Charles’s thumb stroked her hand in a hypnotic motion. “Together, my little nymph.”
In that moment, Abby knew. Charles Farrington III would never be a world apart from her again. He would be right outside her back door, and if the gleam in his eyes told her anything as he leaned in to emphasize his point with a kiss … he would be hers.
Professional coffee drinker, Jaime Jo Wright resides in the hills of Wisconsin. She loves to write spirited turn-of-the-century romance, stained with suspense. Her day job finds her as a director of sales and development. She’s wife to a rock-climbing, bow-hunting Pre-K teacher, mom to a coffee-drinking little girl and a little boy she fondly refers to as her mischievous “Peter Pan.” Jaime completes her persona by being an admitted social media junkie and coffee snob. She is a member of ACFW and has the best writing sisters ever!
The Gardener’s Daughter
by Anne Love
Dedication
To the teachers who had an impact on my journey—
Mom and Dad;
Mrs. Frazier, Mrs. Andrews, and Ms. Yoder;
Professors Marion Bontrager, Ron Gingerich, and Nancy Gillespie;
And to my husband, Ted,
who believes in me—forever thank you.
Chapter One
Bay View, Michigan 1895
Thump. Thump. She could plant herself in a library world such as this one forever. Thump. Maggie Abbott stamped the catalog card of Harriett Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin and placed the book on the stack to be shelved. Books she could read when the library of Bay View’s Chautauqua wasn’t humming with academy students. Books she didn’t have to shelve since she had just begun a new position as the front desk attendant.
The library matron had left her to lock the door at closing, and Maggie couldn’t wait to dive into the newest arrival. She placed the stack of books on the return cart then reached for H. G. Wells’s The Time Machine.
Only
for a moment before leaving. A few delicious words were all she needed.
Lifting the cover embossed with the image of a winged sphinx, she heard the creak of the stiffness of a newly opened novel. She fingered beyond the beautiful vellum pages and drank in the words of the first chapter. She ignored her stomach growling and made quick work to forget that Father would be waiting for the dinner she was responsible to prepare.
“Sorry, Miss …?”
Deeply lost in the world of a time-traveling English scientist inventor, Maggie jolted at the sound of the rich baritone voice behind her. Nearly dropping the precious volume, she clutched it to her white linen bodice and twirled to face the unexpected intruder.
“I’m afraid I’m a bit overdue.” The man’s voice reverberated through the empty library. Dark brown, drilling eyes matched the voice. His starched white collar and a fine-threaded suit coat announced he was a Bay View summer cottager, or perhaps a lecturer from the academy?
“We’re closed.” Her voice squeaked. Her heart still pounded with the surprise of her reverie interrupted and by the vision of a gentleman who might just have resurrected from the pages of her novel. Maggie pinched the tender skin beneath her elbow where she still clutched the book.
Ouch. Definitely not imagining.
“Ah, but the door was open. Therefore, the library is still open.” He cocked a grin and braced his hands on the desk between them.
“Yes. I suppose you have a point.” Maggie sized him up. Confident. Authoritative. As if the world belonged to him. Yet something in his curious grin hinted otherwise. Whatever it was, Maggie looked intently back at him and set her novel down. “How may I assist you, sir?”
“I need …” He hesitated, glancing at the spine of the book she clutched. “Do you always read adventure novels?”
“This one just arrived. I admit the first pages promise an exciting story. Reading as much of the materials as I’m able is a requisite. Loving them is a privilege.” Maggie grinned, still infected by the thrill of the pages she’d just finished.
“And you prefer such adventure over the latest craze of suffrage or social injustice readings?”
“Oh sir, I believe overcoming the injustices of the world requires great imagination and mystery. I should think the most vital characteristics of a woman of substance begin with her willingness to imagine adventure and her desire to understand the mystery of humanity.” Maggie blurted her heart’s musing without thinking how it might sound to the refined man.
His eyes studied her novel once more, silent to her reply. Perhaps she’d spoken too boldly? Nervous prickles hovered over her skin.
A twinkling sparked his eyes as he looked up, as if calculating several different options while he stared openly into her eyes. “Actually, I need more than just a little assistance. If I might request a bit more of a, say … collaboration?”
Maggie’s wits perked to attention. “Of course. A library assistant is ready to help, is she not?”
“Oh, not just ‘help.’ Participation. I’ll need your word, your commitment. It could take all summer—if you can do it.” The curious grin returned, framed by a strong jaw and a well-trimmed mustache. Seemingly quite aware he entertained her and her alone, the gentleman glanced down at his timepiece and around the empty library before handing her the edition of the Saturday Review for checkout.
“Well, sir. I’m intrigued, but how am I qualified for this collaboration you speak of? I know nothing of the requirements, or of you.” She stamped the date on the check-out card. What an interesting chap. She suspected Wells’s time traveler was just as mysterious, and she couldn’t wait to read further.
“As a lecturer of Bay View’s academy, I’m in charge of the material the students study in our Reading Circle on campus. I’ll need selected readings pulled, read, and ready to discuss. If it goes well, the material you help me develop will be used for the Bay View Magazine, which you no doubt know is read nationwide since our small community of summer cottagers compose the second most popular Chautauqua in the nation—right behind the original community in Chautauqua, New York.” His eyes twinkled as he awaited her response before he hooked her with the first challenge. “Start by reading the rest of that novel you were lost in when I entered.”
“Read this? How does simply reading one novel count as collaboration?”
“That”—he searched for the name plate on her desk—“Miss Magdalena Abbott, is an answer you shall learn. I assure you, it is an honorable quest.”
Learning. The one thing Maggie craved, and was always yearning to do. It was her insatiable curiosity that had driven James Abbott to deposit her care into the hands of the librarians while he worked after Maggie’s mama had died. The library was the one place where she could travel in her mind. How could she say no to learning?
Maggie swallowed as he waited, his stance expectant and confident. His shoulders were wide and solid looking. How could it hurt to join in his proposed adventure?
“You came here for this express purpose at five minutes after five o’clock?”
“Well, not entirely. I came for a copy of the Saturday Review. But then I saw you, Miss Abbott, and it was clear you’re the solution for our new Literary Reading Circle success. What do you say? Will you help me research the Reading Circle curriculum? Think carefully. I’m giving you a chance to participate in the greatest national craze of higher-level learning that the ideals of Chautauqua offer—a chance to learn about culture, religion, politics, the great outdoors, and the arts—a chance to join the movement that started two decades ago and stands to influence generations to come.” Though he held out his hand for her to shake as if they were merely making a business deal, his eyes twinkled as though he believed every word of his speech.
Maggie’s heart thrilled. Her hand jutted into his larger one. Her lips moved despite her doubts about her qualifications for the task. He spoke as if any man or woman were a welcome contributor to the Chautauqua movement that was sweeping the nation. He didn’t have to know she was merely the uneducated daughter of a gardener. “Yes. I’ll do it.” Her hand in his didn’t exactly bounce with the shake of a gentleman’s deal.
Instead, he held her hand gently and squeezed, not letting go immediately.
“I need your name, sir.”
“Wesley Graham Hill the Third. Wes or Wesley to my friends.” He released her hand, swept up the copy of the Saturday Review he’d come for, and exited as quickly as he’d appeared.
Panic and exhilaration rushed through Maggie’s every fiber. She’d just made a private agreement with none other than the nephew of Bay View’s members-only Chautauqua founder?
Maggie’s heart fluttered at the idea of a real chance for a legitimate impact in the adult educational movement that had swept the nation’s resort communities, and had pressed the small cottage community of Bay View to form its own academy that was now burgeoning at the seams with over seven hundred students. Surely he realized she wasn’t a member or a student. Didn’t he?
“Heavens, what was I thinking?” She pinched herself once more. Whether for reality’s sake or for chastisement, she wasn’t entirely certain.
“I’m afraid I’m a bit overdue?” Wesley kicked a stone, sending it skidding over the boardwalk outside the library. What kind of an idiotic line was that? Miss Abbott must have heard that line from more than one lad lucky enough to gain her attention. The fact that she hadn’t evicted him from the premises on the spot with a string of well-rehearsed words from a suffragette speech was the simple reason he’d blurted out the unplanned proposal. He guessed she possessed both brains and beauty—two things he could stand to live with the rest of his life.
If his friend and co-lecturer Samuel Hicks had been keeping Miss Abbott’s existence a secret while snatching up all the literature acquisitions for the Reading Circle, he’d never forgive the chap. How many evenings had he endured picnics in the grove, reclined at the edge of a blanket while listening to the regurgitation of a borrowed speech?
Not to mention one too many poetry recitations spoken more from pretense than conviction. Wouldn’t a woman rather live her life of equality than talk about it for hours on end, having never once set her foot in the ocean of her very own adventure or self-expression? How many nights had he tried to explain to Sam that he’d know what he was looking for in a woman when he saw it?
Wesley bounded up the steps of Uncle Bernard’s house. Perhaps this was the summer that wouldn’t be as predictable as the squeak of the hinges on the oaken front doors of the Victorian cottage on Maple Street, where he’d spent every summer of his existing memory.
Hopeful anticipation tightened in his chest and tugged a grin into place with the thought of seeing Miss Magdalena Abbott soon. Turning the brass knob, Wesley strode over the threshold and down the hallway toward the parlor, where voices filtered and the sound of silver spoons stirring in china teacups heralded feminine company among masculine voices.
“Ah, Wesley, we thought you’d forgotten all about us.” Samuel Hicks stood, teacup in hand, dressed in his finest clothes for the evening’s outing. A devilish twinkle in his widened eyes, followed by a wink, told Wes he’d been set up once again.
“Of course I haven’t forgotten. How could I have?” How could he forget his challenge to Sam? A pledge based more on ornery determination and sheer resolution to prove his friend wrong than on a belief that Hicks would take him up on his claim that Bay View didn’t harbor the woman of his future, and that she couldn’t be found even if he had tea with all the ladies of the Association one by one.
Sam had argued that Wes’s requirements in a future wife were far too demanding, that there were plenty of lovely candidates flocking Bay View every summer if he’d just open his eyes. Wesley had stood his ground that God had just one perfect plan for him, and it had raised the stakes, pushing the two of them toe-to-toe in the brotherly daring they’d enjoyed all through childhood. What would have ended years ago in spit and a handshake resulted instead in Sam taking it upon himself to test Wes’s theory, bringing a string of ladies by the house for tea before they strolled through the grove to watch the million-dollar sunset over the bay.
Of Rags and Riches Romance Collection Page 49