“Mrs. Campbell has a screen door that needs fixing as well. She’ll give me some money for that, too, I expect.” Her father reached for her hand once she’d sat beside him. Removing his hat, he bowed his head and said the Lord’s Prayer. He lifted his head and said what he always said. “The Lord always provides our daily bread, Maggie. Too much would mold anyway.”
Well, bread might mold. But she was quite certain a second dress would not. Was it such a sin to wish for one more? A pretty tea dress like the one she’d seen in the window on Lake Street. Where was the hurt in dreaming?
“You’re quiet today. Saw you get on the streetcar that left just before I reached it. Miss Eloise got you tied up extra late?”
Maggie’s corned beef stuck to the roof of her mouth. She nodded her head and reached for her water glass. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to tell him everything. A rush of warm emotion tangled her stomach. It was more that she didn’t quite know how to tell it. She swallowed. It was merely a simple assignment, easy to explain. Wasn’t it?
“You must be tired lifting all those old heavy volumes up over your head, climbing that library ladder up and down all day.”
She nodded. Perhaps he was right, the long day was the reason for the odd emotions swirling within.
“Go on to your room and rest. I’ll wash up.”
Truthfully, she was tired. Though it was less from her work and more from reading when she should have been sleeping, and hurrying stacks of books back to the shelves before they were missed the next morning. Maggie was grateful for the excuse to retreat to her room and close the door behind her. She laid her shirtwaist out on a clean spot on the floorboards and spread dried rose petal sachets over it for fragrance. Papa said real roses were better than any store-bought lady’s perfume. And though she loved when he brought her fresh rose cuttings from the garden where he worked at Stafford Place, she still dreamt of having real perfume someday.
Her conscience pricked her as if dreaming was akin to ungratefulness. But it wasn’t. Not really or truly. Nowhere had she read in the Bible that dreaming was a sin.
But keeping a secret was nearly like a white lie, and she knew it to be the real source of her anxiety, for she had always shared everything with her father. Why she hadn’t just explained herself she wasn’t sure.
Folding her hands, she closed her eyes. “Heavenly Father, I thank Thee for all the bread You give us, and that it isn’t moldy. I thank Thee for this dress and these rose petals, and that dreaming isn’t a sin. And I promise if Papa asks, I will tell the truth about why I was late. Amen.”
“Look at these outlines, Sam. The work is exhaustive and comprehensive. I’m telling you, this lady is a genius. None of my academy students are half as bright. I’m going to publish her.” Wesley leaned back. The squeak of his weight against the oak chair echoed in the office he shared at Loud Hall with Sam. “You’re sure you’ve never seen Miss Abbott—you haven’t been keeping her existence a secret?”
“Miss who?” Sam never looked up from the desk where he sat across from Wes, grading essays.
“Sam!” Wesley stood up to pace the small space between his side of the desk and the bookcase—the space he used to think and clear his mind of clutter.
“What?”
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?”
“Something about genius?” Sam shifted, waiting for the ensuing discourse Wes was about to unleash.
“Miss Abbott’s work. It’s genius. Perfection. She not only talked with ease about England nonstop for an hour, but this work … it’s as if she’s taken a trip to Russia herself. Look at her discussion questions for The Geography of Russia by Georg Brandes. Perfection, I’m telling you. This is the second discussion set she’s done for me.” Wesley tossed the papers in front of Sam.
His friend lifted the outlined papers and studied them quietly while Wesley looped his thumbs over his belt, waiting for the agreement he expected.
Sam lowered the papers. “Seems rather ordinary to me.”
“What?” Wesley snatched the papers, ready to debate as if a line had just been drawn.
But a glint sparked in his friend’s eyes as he squinted and drilled his gaze in return. “This Miss Abbott—she’s probably the ugly cousin of a cottager, only here and gone. Why, I’ve never seen her, never heard her name before. The only feminine intelligence in the library I’ve ever seen is old Miss Eloise. Have you fallen for the gray-haired library matron?”
“For the love of Saint Peter.” Wesley took the papers and collapsed back into his chair.
Sam’s laughter broke the too-serious tension. For all the years they’d shared a wrangling sort of brotherly love and competition in all things sport and intellect, Wesley prized their close bond no matter the subject. But this friendly challenge to find a woman had pressed his friend to a new level of scrutiny.
“You think she has matched your intellect?” Sam lightened the goading, his voice lowered.
“I do.”
“And good character?”
“Yes.” Something told him she did. Though he couldn’t name one solid reason why he thought so. Certainly nothing that would hold up to Sam’s debate if he set his mind to disagree. Truthfully, he hardly knew the young lady.
Sam’s face grew serious, as if realization struck him. Leaning in, he pointed at Wes. “You think she meets your impossible criteria, don’t you?”
The air squeezed inside Wesley’s chest. He couldn’t explain why he thought so.
Scrambling to his feet, Sam pounded the desk with a victorious grin. “Blimey! You do!”
“Why do you use that word?” Wesley stood to pace again. “You aren’t even a Brit.”
“Don’t shift the subject, old chap. I’m onto you—the man who refused to seriously court a Bay View girl if she were the last woman on earth?”
Wesley turned back to deny it. After all, how could he know after only having met her little more than once? “I—”
“I’ll believe you’re serious about her if you actually convince her to let you take her to the Final Fling by summer’s end—that is if this hidden library goddess truly exists.” Sam stuck out his hand, minus the spit of their boyhood challenges.
Wesley gripped Sam’s hand and shook hard before he could think twice of the implications. If it would stop the parade of engagements his friend had imposed on him for the summer, it would be worth it even if he were wrong about Maggie Abbott.
But he wasn’t wrong about her.
And he would prove it to Sam.
Chapter Four
Still amazed at how much Wesley had loved her work on England and Russia, Maggie emptied the contents of the third packet onto her desk after the last patron left for the day. The package from Wesley and the list of tasks from Miss Eloise had been side by side on her desk when she’d arrived that morning. After peeking inside to see what her next assignment was, she’d placed it in her desk drawer while she completed the tasks on Miss Eloise’s list.
Maggie was certain the dear woman had practically beamed with pride, as if the exchange with Wesley were equal to a social debut. But it wasn’t anything like it.
Anticipation warred with her burning conscience all day. She’d had to cut short her second meeting with Wesley to arrive home before her father. Yet, curiosity for learning fueled and mounted as she read the third assignment. She was to read parts of Brave Little Holland and write discussion questions. Inside the packet was a copy of the book. She could take it home and read it in her room.
It wasn’t that she wanted to keep a secret from her father. It was more that she couldn’t bear it if he were somehow shamed by her wanting the things he could never provide. Protective sadness for him sagged her shoulders. She would tell him, but only if he asked.
Still, she would need to stay late at the library once more. It would give her access to the atlas and other reference materials she needed to complete the work.
In a prayer, she searched her heart for any wrong motivat
ion and found none. Surely there was no harm in helping Wesley one more time.
She opened the book to the right chapter and scanned the pages.
Glancing at the clock, Maggie calculated there was enough time to spend at least an hour on the assignment. She headed to the table along the south wall, near the atlases and other maps. She spread her materials across the table and stepped onto the lowest rung of the library ladder to reach for the large table atlas on the top shelf. It was a wide and awkward book to balance. Twisting, she stepped down as the book nearly slipped from her hands.
“Let me help with that, Maggie.” Wesley relieved her of the volume and extended a hand to her.
“I didn’t expect you.” Maggie wavered as she stepped down, startled by his appearance and the unexpected warmth on her arm when he reached to steady her. “I only just opened the assignment you sent over. I’m afraid I’ve not even begun it.” She stepped back toward her chair, putting the library table between them. “Perhaps you should return another day and I’ll have it completed for you.”
She sat down to begin her study, but realized he still held the atlas, saying nothing. Rather, he stared at her for a moment, then, “Miss Abbott, I wonder—do you do everything so thoroughly excellently as the work I’ve asked of you?”
She eyed the atlas she needed to get started. He caught her distraction and slid it behind his back as if to hold her attention captive. Did real professors inspire such a case of sudden nerves in all their students? Maggie drew in a soothing breath and gave him the unspoken attention he awaited.
“Your work is near perfection. I’d wager your teachers found it a delightful pleasure to instruct you in school.”
Heat shimmered across her cheeks and prickled her scalp. She told herself it was not from the directness of Wesley Graham Hill, nor the kindness in his words. It had been Miss Eloise who’d taught her everything she knew since her twelfth birthday when she’d quit school to care for Papa’s broken leg. The library matron had seen to it that her education wasn’t halted and had put her to work shelving returned books after hours, while church ladies took turns caring for her father.
“Thank you.” Maggie averted her gaze and fidgeted with the paper that listed her assignment.
Wesley stepped closer. “Maggie, you needn’t be shy about it. You’ve got real ability. Haven’t you been told that before?”
No, she hadn’t. Well, yes, by Miss Eloise. But she’d not counted that in the same way she imagined it might feel to garner a top position in the classroom. Yet, now—here, in the quietness of her domain, under the study of the handsome Wesley Hill—the compliment only served to remind her of the chasm of differences between them. Though why she should care if he knew her station simply muddled her thoughts entirely.
“Mr. Hill, please. The atlas—may I have it?” Daring to look up, Maggie found his eyes dancing with delight, one half of his mouth pulled up with mischief.
“Only if you let me join you. Work the assignment along with me. Show me how you apply your genius.” He held the atlas out to her.
“Well, I suppose academic study is an acceptable reason for your time spent here.”
“Quite proper, I assure you.” He cracked open the atlas to the map of Holland. “Now take me on a trip to Holland through the pages of Brave Little Holland so I can re-create that world for my readers just as you’ve created worlds for me in your last two assignments.”
She had created worlds for him? Maggie opened the pages of three other reference books she’d found about Holland and laid them out on the table. Turning to the chapters they were to study, she found the names of towns and leaned over the map with him to find where they were situated. “There. See how the North Sea meets the lowlands on the northwest coast?” She pulled away from where his sleeve had brushed against hers and began to read aloud. She loved the descriptions of dikes, lowlands, thatched roofs, and of villages along the River Zaan where seventeenth-century windmills dotted the riverside.
The hands of the library clock ticked as she painted verbal pictures of the land and people while Wesley scribbled on papers. After he’d filled three entire pages, Maggie launched further into a description of Dutch tulips. She halted midsentence when she noticed that Wesley had stopped taking notes. A peculiar look came over his face as he leaned back in the chair and rested his head on his fingers laced behind his head.
“Shall I stop?”
“No.” He continued to keep his attention on her as she paced back and forth, book in hand, looking up now and again to expound from her imagination what it must have been like to live in Holland in 1800. Still, he said nothing.
“Oh dear, I’ve gone off topic too far, haven’t I?”
Wesley stood, moving closer to face her. “No, Miss Maggie. For you’ve taken me to Holland and back with you.”
The look in his eye had changed.
A nervous tremor warmed through her middle. “Did you like it?”
The wall clock began to chime six o’clock.
He closed the book she held, his hands over hers. “Very much.”
Miss Eloise’s voice chimed over the third gong of the wall clock. “Miss Maggie, time to close up.” Her footsteps sounded in the hallway, coming closer.
Maggie startled, managing to slide her hands and the book from beneath Wesley’s. “I must go.”
“Please Maggie, don’t rush off again.”
“I mustn’t be late.” She scooped her papers into her folder and slid past Miss Eloise, kissing her on the cheek as she did every night. “Good night, Miss Eloise.”
Wesley stared at the empty hallway where Maggie had once again abruptly disappeared. He’d hoped to escort her home and ask her to attend a lecture with him the following week, but she evaporated before he had a chance.
“Like a butterfly, she is. Isn’t she?” Miss Eloise looked down the hall after her, then winked at him.
“Yes, she is always flitting off just as I expect her to land.” He reminded himself the matron was the ally he needed, but he wasn’t sure how to gain her trust and prove his mission was honorable.
“Bright and lovely, too, yes?”
“That she is. That she is.” Wesley grinned, knowing he couldn’t find the right words for exactly what his intentions were. To ask her to the music festival for the Final Fling at the end of the summer, of course. But having never met her parents, how was he to gain permission to court her? Or was she of independent age, able to answer for herself? There really was nothing about her that was conventional, which intrigued him all the more.
“Mr. Hill, that butterfly should be caught by someone who can appreciate her beauty and her need to fly. She has a solid mind and a passion that no circumstances should hinder. Now help me put that atlas up on the shelf. I’m too old to climb the ladder.” The silver-haired matron plunged the atlas into his hands.
Wesley reached the atlas to its place and turned to find Miss Eloise studying him with a gleam in her eye and more of a grin than he’d ever seen on her before.
“Does anyone court her, Miss Eloise?”
“No sir. You’d be the first to ask about our Maggie.”
He stepped off the bottom rung. “I’ll be back in one week.” He dared to wink at the old woman.
“Of course you will, though I’d have you mind not to trifle with her.” Blessing and threat wove through her words with the precision of a loving guardian.
“You have my word of honor.” Wesley laid his hand over his heart, spurred to continue his pursuit of the lovely Miss Maggie Abbott.
Chapter Five
The fourth weekly package of assignments arrived three days ahead of schedule. The new assignment was of an entirely different nature—English royalty. The questions were more probing, more concerning the character and nature of Queen Victoria. Thrilling. Maggie could hardly wait for five o’clock. But it was the yellow rose pressed flat with an attached note in his handwriting that kept her thoughts circling back again to Wesley Graham Hill.<
br />
The fragrance of the friendship rose she knew well.
The sudden catch of her breath—quite unfamiliar.
A rush of warm emotion washed over her each time she read his words of thanks for taking him to Holland and back. Beneath the careful script, it was signed, “Your Friend Always, Wesley.”
The words, the rose, said nothing more than friendship. But as she worked through the questions, Maggie found she began to cherish his way of matching her curiosity for adventure and learning. Anticipation and wonder mounted as she delved deeper into study. Would his eyes be filled once more with that knowing sense that he understood her mind?
The library was silent. Miss Eloise was tucked in her office with the door half cracked open. Once Maggie had caught the matron with eyes closed though she sat over a book, making Maggie giggle to herself.
The clock chimed the fifth time. Five o’clock.
Maggie pulled the drawer of the library desk open where she’d tucked the pressed friendship rose. Was it friendship alone that fueled the expectation she felt mounting within? Pushing the uncertain thoughts aside, she gathered her study materials, found their usual study alcove, and spread out her papers.
She’d already worked through the introductory questions about England’s countryside and delved into the more interesting memoirs of Queen Victoria’s younger years. Maggie admired Victoria because she’d forsaken the privilege of an isolated court life for one that brought her into daily contact with the sufferings of the poor.
She looked back to Wesley’s question. “Was Queen Victoria’s life of privilege more or less, or of equal value to those of lower social standing?” Of course, she knew the answer.
But how could she explain to Wesley Graham Hill III that even though everywhere she looked in Bay View there was the belief that riches, knowledge, and opportunity were paramount to happiness, in her own humble home in Petoskey she’d flourished under the wealth of love, faith, and trust? How could she answer his question without admitting what she knew from her own experience?
Of Rags and Riches Romance Collection Page 51