Chapter Nine
In the days since Monday when Miss Eloise had accepted Wesley’s invitation for her, Maggie’s days had drifted past one by one with simple routine that contrasted the panic that was growing as Friday dawned. Surely she was building up the teatime far more than she should. It was just another day, after all. Like all the others.
It had hardly seemed real yesterday when a package waited for her outside the door to their little apartment above Easton’s Hardware in Petoskey. Miss Eloise had outdone herself and purchased the promised tea gown. Maggie had risen an hour early to iron out the creases from its being folded in the box. She’d taken extra time for her hair and hurried to get her work done by the time the clock struck noon and Miss Eloise released her to go home to change into the dress.
She climbed Pine Street hoping not to break a sweat. Ducking into the general store, she found the ladies’ powder and laid her coins on the counter. She rang the bell for the attendant and startled when the voice of Mr. Bernard Hill sounded in the silence behind her.
“Why, Miss Abbott, you are a fast shopper on a mission. I came to Petoskey on business and saw you at the station. I tried to greet you, but you were a few steps ahead of me. I would have given up and let you go on your way, but I feared you heard me call your name and that you would be frightened that someone had followed you. Wesley tells me that you’ll be sharing tea with him this afternoon.”
A warning shiver crept over Maggie’s nerves. The prestigious banker seemed a bit out of place, and she wished the grocer would appear to break the strange feeling that Mr. Hill had followed her with greater intentions than just a friendly greeting. “Yes, Mr. Hill, thank you.” She rolled the folds of her dress between her fingers.
“Forgive me for being so forward, but your looks are similar to someone I knew years ago and I cannot let it go. Would you be kin to a Miss Charlotte Smith? She was a laborer at one time. Married a gardener, I believe.” He studied her face more intently than she felt comfortable with.
Mother’s maiden name? But what sense did such a question make? Did he mean to put her in her place in some way? Trepidation held her tongue.
“I knew her long before she was on my work staff. Charlotte was a remarkable girl I used to know from summer camp—from childhood. She used to come to camp meeting with her family—farmers, I believe they were. Everyone came to the camp meeting back in those days—farm hands, businessmen, even Indians.” His reminiscence in such an odd time and place, the story of her father’s termination before her mother’s death—all of it swirled together to give Maggie the sense that she was part of a much larger story than she had imagined.
“Well, the name—your resemblance of her is subtle, but I just thought …” He shook his head as if it were a ridiculous assumption. “Just a coincidence, I’m certain. Those days were long ago, but you should know …” He paused to make the point she felt he’d truly intersected her for, the real reason he’d come to Petoskey. “It’s not that we cottagers are after a privileged summer vacation. It’s that we’re committed to applying as much good to our world as we can. That is, we want Wesley to use his opportunities for the betterment of himself and humanity. I’m sure you can agree, as my young friend Miss Charlotte Smith always reminded me, goodness and kindness know no social limits. It is the mind that sees limits that is a mind sure to miss opportunity.” The grocer appeared from behind the storeroom curtain, breaking Mr. Hill’s reverie before Maggie could reply. “Have a lovely teatime. But mind you, if you are anything like that gardener’s wife from long ago, you might find that the magic of Bay View leads you to believe that anything is possible. We aim to preserve this place where common can walk alongside extraordinary and where the poor man, the laborer, and the gardener all set differences aside to share in God’s grace and goodness. Good day.” He turned without waiting for her response, as if he didn’t care what it might have been. As if he only intended to deliver a challenge, not a greeting.
Staring after him, Maggie tried to sort out the odd interchange. The grocer took her coins and set the wrapped package on the counter in front of her. “Was that man bothering you, Miss Abbott?”
“No sir.” She smiled thinly and took the package. “Thank you.” Outside, she slipped along the side of the building toward the steps that led to her entryway. She’d taken the alleyway many a time, but this time couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just been challenged by a powerful man….
Truly, “goodness and kindness know no social limits.” Yet change was never without cost.
She wasn’t sure whether to be encouraged, or entirely intimidated.
Every self-doubt she’d ever had seemed to chase Maggie up the steps and inside her apartment like a hound on her heels. She felt that her worst traits were transparent to all and she was about to be found an imposter.
She slammed the apartment door behind her and took a shuddering breath.
Did she truly possess the power of simple faith her mother had? Faith that transcended all division, social class, and language?
Inside her bedroom, the lace tea gown teased her heart’s desires from where it hung. It was nearly like the one she’d seen in the window of Fay’s Dress Shop two weeks before. She ran her hand over it then pulled the window shade down and slid from her skirt and shirtwaist. Pulling the new gown from the hanger, she lifted it over her head and let it shimmer down over her hips and to the floor. Twisting to see the buttons in the mirror behind her, she reached behind to fasten them, careful not to miss one.
Turning back to face the old mirror, she wished her reflection was as crisp as the ones in the department store. Instead, her image was dim and disjointed from the cracks in the silver paint peeling from the back of the old looking glass. Maggie tried to push down the feeling that the imperfect image was a message sent to shake her from her dreams.
She twisted a loose lock of hair that had fallen and tucked it into place.
Lacing the string of her mother’s pearls around her neck, she fingered them softly. “What would Mr. Hill have known of you, Mother? How could he have known you so well, why come out of the way to say such things?” All the wonderful things that had ever been told to her about her mother filtered through her memory. How she’d been fluent in the Odawa and Ojibwa languages. How she would take Indian children to camp meetings and translate the Gospel. How she never cared about class or color more than heart and soul. It was said the Indians had named her Words of Power.
Standing back to get a full-length view as best she could in the short mirror, Maggie paused. Wesley had claimed she had words of power. But did she?
Did she truly believe love spanned all differences?
Putting the tea gown on hadn’t dispelled the discord she’d felt after her run-in with Mr. Hill. Somehow it only made her feel worse.
The differences between them were too great.
To pretend otherwise was ridiculous. Wesley cared for her, but only for the parts she’d allowed him to see. Covering her true identity with a dress or anything else—she just couldn’t do it.
Maggie sat on the chest at the foot of her bed and took a paper from her desk. She prayed she was making the right decision.
Chapter Ten
Wesley flipped the cover of his pocket watch for the sixth time. She was twenty minutes late. His emotions ranged from frustration, to disappointment, to worry. Even Miss Eloise was growing concerned.
Standing outside the library on the steps, he scanned the street as far as he could see. Throngs of people had streamed past the library steps on their way toward the tea on the lawn. Maggie was nowhere. He was ready to retrace their steps the night he’d taken her to the train station, thinking to board it and search Petoskey, when a newsboy ran up the steps.
“You Mister Hill, sir?”
“I am.”
The boy shoved a note into his hand and darted back the way he’d come. Unfolding the paper, Wes read:
Dear Wesley,
I cannot at
tend the tea with you today. It would be dishonest of me to do so.
Furthermore, I must end our academic agreement. I regret any disruption this may cause you and humbly ask for your forgiveness.
Sincerely,
Maggie
“Disruption?” Wesley rubbed his hand over his chest. Did she have no idea what it did to him, to call it only a disruption? He scanned the crowd for the messenger, hoping to catch a glimpse of the boy, thinking to chase after him and find out where she lived. The urge to declare his true feelings pounded in his chest, but he was helpless to express them.
He wavered, then ran down the street toward the train station, weaving in and out of the crowd like a fish swimming upstream. When he reached the Bay View station, the train from Petoskey had just arrived. The boy was nowhere, but Wesley got on the train anyway, fighting his way against the crowd on their way to attend Big Sunday’s main lecture. Finding a window seat to watch for something, anything that might point to the direction the boy might have gone, Wesley’s blood stilled as he recognized the outline of his uncle’s hat and the shape of his shoulders in the midst of the crowd moving away from the train platform. The man’s identity was unmistakable as he strode toward Bay View’s curvy wooded streets.
Wesley stood inside the train car, straining his eyes just as Uncle Bernard turned down the street. He’d seen enough to confirm it. Uncle Bernard had been to Petoskey.
Did he have something to do with Maggie’s refusal?
Surely not.
Wesley slumped to his place by the window, careful not to squash the old man beside him in the seat. The man was dressed in work overalls with grass-stained knees. In his hands he held an old handkerchief full of rose petals that he arranged one by one as if they were golden treasures. Wesley sighed and ran his hands along his thighs, praying about what to do, how to find her. His library princess, the one Sam hadn’t believed existed.
Wesley heard nothing from above. No divine direction whispered in his heart or his mind. Sighing heavily, he ran his hands once more along his thighs, accidentally catching the tail of the man’s kerchief, sending the petals falling to the floor.
The man gasped and lunged forward to retrieve them.
“I’m so sorry, sir.” Wesley reached down and picked up the fragile petals, the waft of the roses familiar in some way.
The man handled each petal with great care, stacking them one by one back into the kerchief.
“These must be special to you.” Wesley held out his hand for the man to take the last three petals.
“They are for my daughter.” His eyes twinkled. “I tell her God’s perfume is sweeter than any store-bought kind.” He looked up with softness around his eyes and a bit of sadness. “And she believes me, but I wish I could give her more than my gardener’s wages can afford.”
“The smell is lovely, I’m sure she loves them because they come from your heart.” Wesley thought of Maggie. It would be something she would say. He sighed again.
“You are troubled today?”
The man had shared his treasure. Wesley reached in his pocket to share his sorrow. He unfolded the letter from Maggie for the old gent to see. Somehow sharing his ache eased his pain. The man was silent for a moment after reading it.
“Seems you’re a might more troubled than a missed chance for some tea or study with this lady.”
“That I am.”
“This Miss Abbott must be special.” The man’s voice cracked as he fingered the rose petal on top of the stack.
“Oh, that she is, but how I’m going to find her or tell her that before her mind is set, I don’t know.”
“Are you a man of faith? You trust every footstep to the Lord who provides?” The train was coasting toward a halt. The man looked directly up at him, something familiar about his eyes.
“I am. I do, sir.” A peace settled into the place where tumult had churned.
“Then trust the Lord. A rose worth choosing is worth the thorn that may prick when you first reach for it.” The man took a petal from the kerchief and gave it to Wesley before standing and weaving his way into the crowd exiting the train.
Maggie knew she’d done the right thing, but she couldn’t distract herself from the onslaught of questions she knew was coming. How would she face Miss Eloise? Would Father see her heart when she explained?
She tried reading, but her thoughts strayed from the page.
Of course she had refused Wesley based on honesty. Wasn’t that noble? Then why couldn’t she shake the feeling that she’d still not been entirely truthful somehow? But she had been, hadn’t she? Maggie tossed the novel aside and went to the small kitchen to start dinner preparations. Better to be busy.
She heard the door open and close as she set the table and recognized her father’s step into the room behind her.
Sometimes when he came home tired, knees hurting, he was quiet, and she understood when he went to bed early. Tonight’s silence as he shuffled off his work boots and found his chair at the table meant more long hours trying to keep her thoughts busy. Normally she welcomed the chance to enjoy the evening reading, but that was ruined for the night. Maybe even ruined for a lifetime.
Maggie sat down across from her father, feeling the acuteness of her own misery as they bowed their heads to pray.
“Father who provides all, provide my lovely daughter with the wisdom to know when You’ve sent her the right man to spend her life with.”
Tears stung Maggie’s eyes and her throat grew thick. She stared at her plate, unable to look up.
He set his handkerchief of rose petals beside her plate and laid his hand across hers.
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
“Why didn’t you tell me this Mr. Hill is in love with you?”
She jerked her gaze upward. “Love? He’s not in love with me. It was only supposed to be tea.”
“Then why are you crying? You didn’t want to tell me you have feelings for him?”
“Is it so obvious to others yet not to me? You only assume he returns my affections.” She shuddered, seeing the disappointment in his eyes. “Oh Father, I didn’t want to hurt your pride.” Maggie swiped another tear. “I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t happy with my life, the life you’ve given me.” Her lip quivered.
“Well, dear girl. A father feels a great many things when he thinks his girl might be falling in love, but having my pride hurt isn’t one of them.” His assuredness and calm only undid her further.
“I’m not in love with him. It was just a schoolgirl agreement to help him with an assignment. I—I turned down the invitation to tea.” Her appetite vanished. She couldn’t breathe through her nose.
He still held his hand over hers. “I’m old. But I once watched your mother fall in love.”
“Well if this is what it feels like, it’s terrible.” Tears and sobs matched her declaration as she pushed away from the table to escape to her room, shutting the door behind her.
Letting the torrent of tears erupt, she emptied her heart as she lay on the bed.
Why was being honest so unbelievably painful?
Wasn’t cutting Wesley Graham Hill out of her life supposed to bring everything back to the way it had been before?
Chapter Eleven
Wesley climbed the rising street toward his family cottage, the disruption in his plans with Maggie making a chance for greater trust in God, as the old gardener had said. But the peace that he felt from his conversation on the train was challenged by having seen his uncle coming back from Petoskey. He knew his uncle was well intended, but couldn’t shake the notion that he’d been the reason for Maggie’s refusal.
Wesley was late to dinner. Aunt Maud and Uncle Bernard had already been seated, their servant busy taking trays away from the table when Wesley pulled his chair out to seat himself.
“You’re late.” Uncle Bernard wiped his mouth with his linen napkin.
“My apologies, Aunt Maud. I know tardiness bothers you.” He didn’t want to u
pset his aunt more to bring up what was on his mind, but it couldn’t be helped. “Uncle, was that you I saw getting off the train from Petoskey this afternoon?”
Uncle Bernard popped the last of a dinner roll into his mouth and nodded.
“What took you there?”
“Had some business.”
“How was your tea with Miss Abbott?” Aunt Maud’s voice was cheery and eager.
“She broke the plans. I didn’t go.”
Uncle Bernard looked up.
“Oh dear, she’s not come down with illness now, has she?” His aunt’s tone ever of concern.
“No.” Not unless heartache was contagious. But he could tell from her letter that Maggie clearly wasn’t suffering as he’d been since receiving it. Wesley pushed his plate back, his appetite lost.
“Are you sick, too? Eat your food, Wesley.”
“No, I’m not sick. I’m not hungry.”
Uncle Bernard stood from the table. “Follow me to the porch, Wesley.”
Wesley, sensing the seriousness in his uncle’s voice, picked up his water glass and followed.
The sun was setting over the bay, a ball of scarlet over the water. Three tired young boys carried buckets of beach stones as they trailed behind their mother to the cottage next door. He could hear a barbershop quartet singing, their song lilting through the trees between the campus and his uncle’s cottage.
“Wesley, I know you think you know this Miss Abbott, but—”
“I do.” Wesley braced himself for the challenge about to come.
“Every young man is tempted to believe the first girl he has eyes for is the one.”
“She’s refused me, Uncle. Even if I want to pursue her, I doubt she’ll see me even if I beg Miss Eloise for her address.” But as he said it, he was ready to be at the library the next morning. “If you’ve brought me out here to convince me to drop her and court Mary Reed, the answer is no.”
“That’s not my plan.”
“Good.” Wesley shoved his hands into his pockets and walked along the porch railing. Reaching out, he plucked a rose petal from one of Aunt Maud’s bushes. It didn’t smell the same as the one the gardener had given him. “You didn’t bring me out here to dissuade me then?”
Of Rags and Riches Romance Collection Page 54