“Your Aunt Maud and I only want what’s best for you.”
“You’ll consent to my courting Miss Abbott, if she’ll have me, even if she’s not a cottager? I thought membership was the biggest issue you’ve spent your life defending for Bay View. She’s of Christian persuasion. Or is it more than that you require of my wife?”
“One of my priorities is to maintain the one tenet—that members of Bay View be of Christian persuasion. Perhaps you’re confusing this priority with my hesitancy for Miss Abbott. They aren’t the same.”
“Perhaps not. Christian persuasion as a criteria for membership is a noble tenet, Uncle, but doesn’t drawing lines get messy? How is it different for Miss Abbott? She’s of Christian faith, but what good does it serve her if she doesn’t also meet your criteria in all other areas?”
“I only care that, if you love this girl, you should really know her. Her family, who she loves, where she comes from.”
This time, Uncle Bernard’s tone had changed. He sounded less like a board member and more like a father than ever before.
“Be careful, it almost sounds like you’re telling me to go after her.”
Uncle Bernard’s eyes twinkled. “There was once a girl I met at summer camp when I was twelve. I hadn’t thought of her for years until your Miss Abbott stood finishing her monologue reading in the parlor last week. She had the same charisma with words. Words that could make you believe anything. It was that simple farm girl, who’d come to camp meeting with her pa, who first explained the love of Christ our Savior to me in a way that made sense. That girl would tell the Gospel to the little Indian boys who came to meeting, too—back in those days it was just a simple tent meeting for everyone. Perhaps we’ve let—perhaps I’ve let it get too complicated. Those Indian boys were different, but she didn’t see that. She saw souls and witnessed to them despite what others said or saw. One night she found me eavesdropping and we became fast friends. Then she was gone and I never saw her again that summer.”
Wesley had never known his uncle to reveal much of his boyhood. The token of peace, the man’s confession of sorts—Wesley was grateful for the rare exchange.
“Don’t get me wrong, I fell head over heels for your Aunt Maud. But I never forgot Miss Smith or the way she could move a man’s heart to deeper faith. Be discerning, Wesley. Be sure you know her well. Yet be wise to remember it’s actually simpler than it seems. Perhaps I’d forgotten that until now.” Uncle Bernard clapped Wesley on the back, clearly relieved that he’d accomplished his fatherly duty, and left the porch.
Wesley had wanted to take his uncle to task and ask if he’d had anything to do with Maggie’s refusal. Instead his uncle had left the door open. Was he actually suggesting that he should pursue Maggie further?
What of his bet with Sam? He couldn’t bear to share tea times with anyone Sam might find now.
Summer wasn’t over, and there was still the music festival.
He picked one more rose petal, deciding that Maggie Abbott would be by his side if he had to check out all the books in the library to convince her. Returning the stacks of student books was just the idea he needed to get her attention.
“You didn’t go to the tea?” Miss Eloise’s face crumpled.
“I couldn’t.” Maggie set the boxed dress on the matron’s desk.
“Your eyes look terrible. Did you cry yourself to sleep? You know you can never hide that from me, dear.”
Maggie bit her lip and nodded no, then yes.
“That man loves you, Miss Magdalena Abbott.”
“He loves who he thinks I am, Miss Eloise. When he sees the rest of my life, where I live, where I come from—he’ll know he was mistaken. I’m saving him the bother.”
“You’ve lost your mind. That is not the Maggie Mae I know.”
“But it is.” Maggie shuddered a breath to stifle the return of tears.
“What are you afraid of, sweet girl?”
“That he won’t be able to get past our differences—that I won’t be able to be everything my mother was—bigger than all that separates …” A little sob caught in her chest as she let the last hidden truth go and looked up at Miss Eloise.
“Oh dear girl, do you love him?”
Maggie bit her lip and nodded, still afraid of what it might cost her.
“Then let him love you. If you really believe that where you live, your father’s work, or how you live matter to him, then you are the one who’s mistaken. You’ve had your head in the books on these shelves your whole life, but they can’t tell you what common sense and love are when you’re staring them in the face. Did you see what came in today?”
“No.”
“Look behind you. A full cart of returned student books. Think and pray on some common sense while you do your regular duties. Then you’ll check in and shelve that cart before you leave. Maybe that will prove something.”
Maggie sighed and trudged through her day, numbly attempting to reason and pray. By late afternoon she rolled the cart of books toward her desk to check them in. She picked up the first book, noted the number on the spine, and searched through the cards in the file box. When she found the right card she opened the back cover of the book—and found that there was already something inside the pocket. A folded paper, with the words To Maggie Abbott written on it. Inside was a short verse and poem. The salutation read “Yours Forever, Wesley.”
She grabbed the next book—it contained another poem. The next, and the next—they were all full of notes—all the books on the cart. Heat rushed to her cheeks as she realized what he’d done to get her attention. He hadn’t given up.
How could her heart soar with each word while her mind agreed with the logic of her refusal?
Weary from the emotions of the day, Maggie bid Miss Eloise good night and made her way toward the train station. Along the way a young man was putting up posters to announce the annual summer music festival. She couldn’t help wondering if Wesley would attend.
She clutched an envelope to her heart. She’d filled it with Wesley’s poems.
Standing at the train station, Maggie recalled Wesley’s sweet words to her, the way he’d said her name, and held her hand the night of the lecture. “Mag, everything about you matters to me.”
Had she truly made the right decision?
Hoping to ride the train home with Maggie after she’d shelved all the books he’d sent back, Wesley followed her toward the train station, ready to surprise her. He watched from a distance as she stopped to read the details of the summer music festival, wanting only to rush ahead and ask her to go with him. To sit once more, no, many more evenings, listening to her voice as she twilled a story.
But as he watched her, something seemed to hold him back.
He remained at a distance, waiting until she got on the train, and then climbed into the car behind hers. He waited until the train began to move, then made his way from his car to hers, thinking of how he would surprise her and declare himself.
He spotted her near the window, the seat beside her empty. Heart surging, he was ready to open his heart right there in the train where she couldn’t run away. She’d finally have to hear him out. He took a step forward, and was three seats away from her when a man in front of him to the right stood up, moved toward her seat, and sat next to her. Leaning close to her, the man planted a kiss on her cheek, and Wesley’s heart sank.
He reached to steady himself as the train lurched. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He’d been a fool. That was what she’d needed forgiveness for? He forced his eyes open to see once more that she belonged to someone else.
He was one step closer when a familiar voice mixed with hers and the man handed her a kerchief. Wesley’s heart surged as he watched her open it and dip her nose to inhale what he knew to be rose petals.
Her father was the old gardener? She was his daughter?
He staggered back, the truth hitting him full on. All the times she’d held back, tried to explain to him that sh
e wasn’t like him. True, she’d told him she wasn’t a member of Bay View, nor was she an academy student. He knew her life was different than his. But he’d never thought just how different. He hadn’t listened, hadn’t given her the chance to be fully honest. In fact, had he somehow given her the idea her life wasn’t acceptable to him? His thoughts jetted back to her reaction at his uncle’s home, their prestige.
The train braked and halted.
The people rushed and pressed past him, between him and Maggie as she moved away from him and off the train, her arm linked in her father’s. Wesley recalled the old gardener’s admonition to trust in the Lord.
The words her father had spoken to him that day—the man had to realize the letter of refusal was from his own daughter. And still he’d said those kind words. “A rose worth choosing is worth the thorn that may prick when you first reach for it.”
A plan formed in his mind as he watched them walk away.
One he was certain he could entrust to the Lord.
Chapter Twelve
No book returns for her had come for two solid weeks. With each passing day, Maggie’s hopes flagged a little more despite the mirth and growing cheerfulness of Miss Eloise. She’d never seen the woman get so excited about the end of the season. For Maggie it was always a bit melancholy to see all the cottagers close up their cottages, latch their shutters, and lock their doors until the next season.
It was always a rush at the end. Most the books that had been forgotten found their way back to the check-in shelf. But none of them had been from Wesley Graham Hill.
She’d checked.
With the last cart of books to shelve, Maggie decided to pace herself and sat to rest at her desk. She pulled out the last packet Wesley had sent her. The one they’d never completed together. The dried flowers were still bright, and she laid them on the desk beside her ink set.
Three academy girls turned in their last set of study books and left, arm in arm, giggling about who would take them to the music festival.
Maggie pulled out the handwritten notes from Wesley, her melancholy growing by the moment. She reread them and slid them underneath her desk calendar, waiting for the clock to chime five so she could escape the crowds getting ready for vespers.
If Wesley Graham Hill were the only love interest she’d ever have, she would cherish the five o’clock chime for the memory of the times he slipped through the doors. The memory of that first day when he’d offered an academic proposal. She closed her eyes and held her head in her hands, letting the memory of it drift through—
The door slammed. Footsteps.
Fingers drummed on her desk.
Maggie’s heart surged as she opened her eyes.
There before her stood Wesley dressed in a black suit, white shirt. His hair slicked. He held his fingers over his lips with a shh.
She bit her lips to hold back words. Things she wanted to say.
From behind him, he pulled a bouquet of red roses. As he did, her father appeared from the book stacks next to the door and made the shh sign with his finger over his lips. From behind her, she heard Miss Eloise’s footsteps, a gasp, and then silence.
With the proper audience assembled, Wesley grinned and dipped into a genteel bow. Then he knelt to one knee.
“Miss Magdalena Abbott, you are but a humble gardener’s daughter, I know, and I am but the orphaned nephew of a kind uncle who made a promise to be a father to me. Your smile, your words, your soul and faith, I cannot live without. I don’t care that you live in a simple apartment above the hardware store. I don’t care that you only have one fancy dress to your name.” He winked at Miss Eloise, who winked at Maggie. “None of my uncle’s wealth or prominence could make me as happy as having you in my life. Forgive me if I didn’t listen, never allowing you the opportunity to be forthright about your circumstances. Please do me the honor of accompanying me to the Final Fling, for you’ve captured my heart and I love you. For if I know you at all, I’m certain you know in your heart that faith and love are the only bridge that can bind us together, and no difference we ever face will be too great if we trust our Heavenly Father.”
With each declaration, Maggie’s doubts melted away. The realization that Wesley knew her and loved her in spite of their differences settled peace over her, a peace that had been missing until now. She let his words sink deep into her heart.
“What do you say?” he said finally.
“I say that you are ‘overdue,’ Wesley Graham Hill.” She grinned, using the line he’d first said to her.
Wesley jumped up from where he knelt, clasped both her hands in his, then leaned near and kissed her cheek. He lingered close as Miss Eloise and her father clapped and cheered.
“Don’t ever make me that miserable again.”
“You were miserable?”
“Terribly. I thought I didn’t matter to you.”
“Everything about you matters to me, Mag.” The words were only for her, whispered near. “All the rest of your days matter to me.”
Wesley’s words of a future with her, his declaration, and the peace that had settled over her were all she needed to believe the words her mother had written inside her Bible. “These three remain: faith, hope, and love.” Never could wealth or the lack of it, nor hardship, ease, or difference ever destroy what faith, hope, and love could build.
Anne Love is a vintage-loving author fueled by prayer, strong black coffee, and characters of generations past—both real and fictional. By day, she’s a family nurse practitioner in northern Indiana, and by night, she writes historical romance flavored with vintage rural charm, inspired by her faith and family roots. Wife of a schoolteacher and mother of two young adults and a daughter-in-law, she fills her free time with genealogy, gardening, mentoring, and music. Anne is a long-time member of American Christian Fiction Writers and cofounder of the group blog www.coffeecupsandcamisoles.blogspot.com where she contributes weekly.
Connect with her at www.facebook.com/AuthorAnneLove, and at www.anneloveauthor.com.
A Tale of Two Hearts
By Gabrielle Meyer
Dedication
To my godchildren: Caleb Gosiak, Gage VanRisseghem, Claire VanRisseghem, Tucker Skoglund, and Finley Skoglund. One of the greatest honors of my life is to lead you closer to the Lord. I love you all.
Acknowledgments
I’m grateful God has allowed me to pursue this dream, and I feel blessed to be surrounded by amazing people who cheer me on. First, I want to thank the ladies in this collection for agreeing to partner with me as we presented these stories to Barbour. I’m thrilled to see my name beside all of yours. I also want to thank my lovely agent Mary Keeley of Books and Such Literary Management; my editors at Barbour Publishing; my talented writing friends Alena Tauriainen, Lindsay Harrel, Melissa Tagg, and Susan May Warren; my priceless Street Team members; my parents George and Cathy VanRisseghem, and my husband’s parents, Virgil and Carol Meyer; my sister and sisters-in-law Andrea Skoglund, Angie VanRisseghem, and Sarah VanRisseghem; my church community; our family friends; and all the citizens of Little Falls, past and present, who inspire me to write the stories of my heart. A very special thank you is always reserved for my husband David and our four children, Ellis, Maryn, Judah, and Asher. Thank you for being my biggest fans and my greatest joy.
Chapter One
Little Falls, Minnesota
May 20, 1899
The countryside sped by as Elijah Boyer pushed the Duryea Motor Wagon to twenty-five miles an hour. Beside him, Frederick Alexander held his hat with one hand and a stopwatch with the other.
“Will you try for a personal record?” Mr. Alexander called over the rumble of the gasoline engine.
Trees, bushes, and fence posts passed at a dizzying pace as the automobile vibrated under the bench seat. Eli grinned and shifted the tiller stick up to move it into third gear. “If Camille Jenatzy can break the speed record at almost sixty-six miles an hour, surely I can go faster than twenty-eight miles an hour.
”
Mr. Alexander looked at Eli with the mischievous grin he was famous for. “Will the Duryea ever reach sixty-six miles an hour?”
“It isn’t capable of such speed.” Eli rotated the tiller handle to go faster. “But with the modifications I’ve made, one day we might get it to forty or fifty.”
The red fence post Eli had painted a year ago when he’d first come to work for Mr. Alexander stood just ahead. From that point, until the second post five miles down the dusty country road, they would calculate his speed.
Mr. Alexander watched the post as it drew near, his stopwatch ready, while Eli gripped the tiller. The automobile became harder to keep steady on the bumpy road, but Eli had hours of experience controlling the buggy-like vehicle.
“Now.” Mr. Alexander started the stopwatch.
The sun beat down and the cloudless blue sky arched overhead, though Eli concentrated on nothing but the road in front of him. He rotated the wooden tiller until it was at full speed and braced himself to stay seated as the vehicle bumped and swayed over the old wagon road.
Neither man said a word as the engine whirled, propelling the automobile forward.
The wind tugged at Eli’s hair and clothes, and his feet felt numb from the constant vibration underfoot. The power beneath his hands gave him incredible energy. He couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to go even faster. To think Camille Jenatzy had gone almost sixty-six miles an hour in Paris just a few weeks ago seemed unfathomable. Even with all the adjustment in the world, Mr. Alexander’s Duryea would never reach such speed, but maybe Eli’s customized vehicle might.
More than anything, Eli wanted to race his own automobile. He’d been working on the design for over a year, building it in his spare time. He had saved up his earnings for half the year and bought a used carriage for seventy dollars. From there, he had purchased others parts as he found them. He still needed an engine and a few other necessary components, but once he had his automobile ready, he could enter races across the country and earn thousands of dollars. Then he’d start manufacturing automobiles of his own.
Of Rags and Riches Romance Collection Page 55