Through the Deep Waters

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  With her coronet of flower-bedecked braids, Dinah appeared to wear a crown. And her dress! Oh, such a lovely gown … In a sweet shade of periwinkle with delightfully pink morning glories climbing on weaving vines of palest green, it couldn’t be more suited to the girl. The light blue brought out the pale color of her eyes, and the flowers matched the splashes of rose on her blushing cheeks. Obviously Dinah’s seamstress knew her well to choose such a complimentary fabric.

  Jealousy nearly turned Ruthie’s stomach inside out. Peering at their reflections in the oval mirror, she felt downright homely even though she wore her new gown and had swept up her hair in a loose, poufed style she’d always felt accented her slender neck. She stepped away from the mirror to check the curling tongs, which she’d placed over the lamp to heat. She fingered the iron barrel and deemed it hot enough to form spiraling coils of the loose strands falling from Dinah’s temples and nape.

  As she wrapped a strand of hair around the barrel, she contemplated why she was helping the girl who was going to the ball with the man she’d hoped would be her escort. Two biblical admonitions simultaneously ran through her mind—“Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you” and “If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head.”

  She gave the tongs a gentle downward pull, and a perfectly shaped coil trailed over Dinah’s shoulder. She lifted another strand, reminding herself Dinah was hardly an enemy. And certainly the girl didn’t hate her even though she couldn’t honestly say they were friends. But performing these kind deeds for Dinah, considering the envy Ruthie held, was as difficult as if she did them for a hateful enemy. Even so, the teaching she’d received from her earliest memories would not allow her to be cruel. Not even to the girl who’d stolen her would-be beau.

  But then, by the end of the evening, maybe Dinah’s aloof behavior would prove off-putting to Mr. Ackerman. By the end of the evening, maybe he would decide he’d rather have a girl who gaily talked and laughed and—

  “Ruthie!”

  Dinah’s shrill squeal started Ruthie so badly she dropped the tongs. A thin line of smoke rose, followed by the foul scent of singed hair. Dinah stared in horror at her reflection. Ruthie matched Dinah’s expression, remorse striking with more ferocity than the jealousy ever had.

  “Oh, Dinah, I’m so sorry. I allowed myself to become lost in thought, and I left the tongs on too long. Oh!” She scrambled for the barrel, which had landed on the carpet beside her slippered feet. A scorched mark showed on one large cabbage rose. Ruthie groaned. “Oh, what a dolt I am …”

  Dinah turned in the chair. “You aren’t a dolt. Anyone can have an accident.” She fingered the heat-stiffened lock. A small grimace creased her face, but she seemed to deliberately replace it with a weak smile. “Hair grows back, and if we reposition the rug, the bed will cover the mark. Please don’t feel bad.”

  Tears pricked behind Ruthie’s eyes as guilt struck like a gale wind. Lord, forgive my unfavorable thoughts. Dinah is behaving more Christlike right now than I am. She sniffed hard and returned the tongs to the lamp. “I have some extra hairpins. I’ll weave the scorched strand into your braid, and no one will ever know it happened.”

  An odd look flitted across Dinah’s face—both hope and agony. She ducked her head, and when she raised it again, the look was gone. She offered a quavering smile. “Thank you, Ruthie.”

  “You’re welcome.” Ruthie carefully lifted the damaged curl and wound it gently into her roommate’s hair. “To be honest with you, Dinah, we could burn off all your hair and you’d still be the prettiest girl at the ball.” Her chest went tight as envy tried once more to take control. “You look beautiful.”

  Dinah’s eyes widened and met Ruthie’s gaze in the mirror. “I do?”

  Ruthie nodded emphatically. “You do.”

  A genuine smile lit Dinah’s face. “Thank you.” Then she added shyly, “So do you.”

  “I do?”

  It was Dinah’s turn to nod.

  Ruthie smiled. Then she laughed, remembering. “Last year Phoebe and I helped each other dress for the ball. We primped and posed before the mirror and even practiced waltzing before going up to the ballroom! That was the night Phoebe met Harold, and now she’s married and has her own house in Newton …” Her thoughts drifted away again, imagining the blessing Phoebe had received. Ruthie wanted it, too—a husband, a house, a family of her own.

  “Ruthie?”

  Dinah’s timid voice pulled Ruthie from her reverie. She looked into her roommate’s pale eyes, which glistened with unshed tears.

  “Maybe … maybe tonight you’ll meet a ‘Harold’ who’ll be smitten with your red-gold hair and fine figure.”

  Ruthie turned away. The only man who’d piqued her interest hadn’t chosen to escort her. And after Dinah’s sweetness to her, how could she even consider hoping he’d reject Dinah? A lump filled her throat, bringing with it the strong desire to cry. She lifted her lightweight shawl from the end of the bed and draped it over her shoulders. “Come, Dinah. It’s eight thirty already. We’d better go.”

  Amos

  Amos wished he could pace. His walk to town through the chill evening air had tired his hip, and pacing would make things worse. But standing still when his insides quivered in impatience was agony. He checked the face of the stately grandfather clock standing guard against the parlor wall. Eight thirty-two. He’d only been waiting seven minutes, but it felt like seven years.

  He fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot and absently rubbing his hip. The same prayer that had lingered in the back of his heart all week winged heavenward again. Lord, if I’m not meant to pursue her, let her be displeasing in my sight. An image of Dinah’s smile the Sunday he’d found her sitting on his bench in church flooded his mind. Something in his chest fluttered in response to the remembrance.

  He couldn’t call her beautiful—not in the classic sense. But there was a sweetness about her, an innocence that touched him. And her features were soft and pleasant, fitting well with her quiet demeanor. He especially liked her unusually pale eyes, as gently blue as a cloudless summer sky. She was young—not yet eighteen—but he sensed she possessed a soul wise beyond her years. She intrigued him. He closed his eyes and shook his head. And now I’m only finding her pleasing again, Lord. What are You trying to tell me?

  The delicate sound of a clearing throat brought his eyes open. His gaze fell on two young women who stood before him, each with shy smiles gracing their faces, each wearing fancy gowns, each with elaborate hairstyles … but only one with eyes of larkspur blue. He settled his attention on Dinah, and his heart fired into his throat, making it difficult to draw a breath.

  Had he really thought her only pretty and not beautiful? He blinked twice, amazed by the transformation from chambermaid to belle of the ball. He gulped and wheezed out, “Miss Hubley, you … You look …” He searched for an adequate word. Nothing seemed fine enough. He finished, “Very nice.”

  His simple statement apparently found favor because she blushed and ducked her chin in a demure pose. “Thank you, Mr. Ackerman.”

  Amos, striving to be polite, turned briefly to Miss Mead. “As do you, Miss Mead.” He spoke truthfully. Miss Mead’s bright-yellow dress decorated all over with red rosebuds suited the preacher’s daughter well. He glanced around the small room, noting the others who had entered the parlor were in pairs. “Are you waiting for your escort?”

  Miss Mead’s rosy lips formed a tight smile. “I am without escort, Mr. Ackerman, but I discovered at last year’s ball there is fun to be found by even those who come alone.”

  He’d never attended a ball, either alone or with a companion, so he couldn’t attest to her statement. But he nodded politely. “Good. Well …” He held out his elbow to Miss Hubley, his pulse scampering into double beats of nervous excitement.

  Her hand extended slowly, as if traveling against a tide, and her fingers trembled as she placed them lightl
y on the crook of his arm. The sight of her slender hand ignited a wave of protectiveness. Ungloved and so very small compared to his thick forearm, with chipped nails and chapped fingers telling a silent story of toil.

  Dinah was humble. Attractive. Willing to work hard. She’s too pleasing, Lord, far too pleasing … He swallowed hard. “Are you ready?” He waited for her timid nod. Then with Dinah at his side and Miss Mead trailing behind, he headed toward the ballroom.

  Dinah

  With a slight shake of her head, Dinah refused the offer of a dance card from the formal-looking man outside the ballroom’s wide double doors. Mr. Ackerman’s hitching gait led her over the threshold, and the moment she entered the room, she released a gasp of delight.

  Gas lamps set shoulder high all around the wood-paneled room cast soft-yellow light over the scene, giving it a fairy-tale quality. Swags of sheer fabric formed festoons from the chain of the glistening chandelier in the center of the high stamped bronze ceiling to each corner. Caught within the folds of cloth, dried rose petals in deepest pink and buttery yellow took on the appearance of jewels. More petals formed dotted trails of color around and between the silver platters and crystal bowls that filled the buffet tables. Snow-white satin tablecloths draped all the way to the floor, the folds shimmering in the glow of the lamps.

  Her lips parting in wonder, she allowed her gaze to drift beyond the tables to the narrow windows stretching from no higher than her knees to well above her head. Bare of any covering, the glass rectangles offered views of the night sky in all directions. Stars twinkled against the gray expanse, seeming to add to the festivity inside. Dinah could think of no better adornment than the exposed patches of stars and endless sky.

  She caught a reflection of the dancers in one pane, and she turned to smile at the pairs of men and women who filled the marble-tiled floor. Their attire was surely fine enough to grace any big-city social event. Above them, the dangling crystals of the chandelier caught light and sent out tiny shards of rainbows. With precise rhythm, the dancers swayed to the tune played by a six-piece orchestra positioned on a platform at the far end of the ballroom.

  A desire to join the dancers swelled, and without conscious thought she took a step toward the center of the room. But Mr. Ackerman didn’t move with her. His firm stance reminded her she’d told him she didn’t intend to dance. Swallowing the lump of longing, she turned her face up to him and found him gazing at her with deep regret in his dark eyes. Abashed at having inflicted discomfort on him within moments of arrival, Dinah bit down on her lower lip. How could she have been so thoughtless?

  The song ended, and the dancers and those standing in groups along the periphery of the dance floor patted their palms together in polite applause. As the orchestra members retrieved their next piece of music, people milled in pairs or small groups. Voices rose in conversation, interspersed with soft bursts of laughter. Dinah stood as still as a fence post, holding on to Mr. Ackerman’s steady arm, wishing he’d say something to break the awkward silence between them.

  Ruthie leaned close to Dinah’s ear. “I’m going to get a plate of food—I’m famished!—and then join the other unescorted girls.” Ruthie’s forehead puckered as she added, “The chairs fill quickly, so unless you want to lean on the wall, you should probably claim a pair of them before you visit the buffet tables.”

  Dinah smiled her thanks for the advice, and Ruthie hurried off in the direction of the tables. Her departure left Dinah tingling with unease. Even though dozens of people filled the room, she felt as though she and Mr. Ackerman stood on a tiny island with a moat keeping them separate from the others. What should she do now? She sent a sidelong glance at her escort.

  Apparently Mr. Ackerman had overheard Ruthie’s whisper because he was scanning the room. He tucked his elbow against his ribs, pinning her fingertips against his scratchy wool suit coat, and pointed with his other hand. “I see a place to sit there between two windows. We’ll have a good view of the dancers, but we’ll be far enough from the band to … talk.” His clean-shaven cheeks streaked with red. “Is that … all right with you?”

  Dinah nodded and allowed him to guide her to an armless settee. A few people standing nearby shifted aside as they approached. The musicians struck up a new tune, livelier than the last, and partners dashed onto the dance floor, giving Dinah and Mr. Ackerman plenty of berth. He released her hand, and she seated herself at one end of the brocade settee, smoothing her skirt over her knees as she did so. He lowered his backside toward the other half. Midway down, it seemed his bad leg gave way, and he landed with a plop that bounced her slightly. She pretended not to notice. Crossing her ankles and resting her hands in her lap, she tried to relax.

  As much as she’d anticipated this evening, now that it was upon her, she felt completely out of place. Beside her, Mr. Ackerman tugged at his collar—a stiff white band of celluloid. His fingers mussed the black ribbon tie, destroying the perfectly shaped bow. Then he lifted his hand to his head and scratched behind his ear, ruffling his thick, dark-brown hair. Sympathy twined through her. He was uncomfortable, too. Suddenly she realized he wore his Sunday suit. Black wool pants and jacket over a white starched shirt and familiar string tie—not a cravat, like most of the other men were wearing—and no top hat.

  Perhaps if she pretended they sat side by side on the church bench, she might be able to enjoy the evening after all. As the song went on, she observed Mr. Ackerman’s stiff form slowly easing to lean fully against the back cushion. His tightly clamped hands on his knees also lost their tense grip, the white dots on his knuckles fading. He shifted his head a bit and caught her peeking at him from the corner of her eye. A grin twitched at his cheeks.

  “The music is nice,” he said, as if testing his voice.

  Dinah offered a wobbly smile. “It is. The band is very good.” She assumed it was very good. She’d never heard a band before tonight, but the combination of stringed instruments pleased her ears.

  “And the ballroom …” He glanced around, his forehead pinched in a thoughtful expression. “It’s a fancy one.”

  “Yes. It … it is.” She wished she had the courage to tell him the room was better than the one from her childhood imaginings.

  The music increased in volume, the dancers’ soles clopping and clicking against the marble in beat with the merry tune. He sighed and angled his body toward her. His knee bumped hers, and he abruptly jerked it back as she jerked away from it. Heat rose in her face, and color climbed from his neck to his hairline. Her discomfort grew. To hide the rush, she made a pretense of plucking a bit of lint from her skirt, then smoothed the fabric again.

  She raised her face in time to see him lick his lips—one nervous swipe of the tip of his tongue. He cleared his throat and blurted, “Miss Hubley, may I ask you an important question?”

  Dinah’s heart thrummed and moisture dampened her palms. This was it! He would ask if he could court her! What would she say in response? She clamped her hands firmly together and forced her chin to bob in silent approval.

  His chest expanded in a mighty intake of air. He opened his mouth, and his breath whooshed out, carrying with it the oddest question. “Do you know God?”

  Dinah

  Having expected something completely different, Dinah took a moment or two to comprehend the question. Then she needed another full minute to decide how to answer. Did she know God? The inner reminder of His love for her had become as familiar as a friend. She had attended church service faithfully and listened when the preacher spoke of God. Although there was much she didn’t know, she believed she could honestly say she knew of God.

  “Yes.” Dinah nodded. “Yes, I do.”

  Mr. Ackerman’s face lit. “That’s good. That’s very good.”

  She’d pleased him. Happiness exploded within her breast. She couldn’t help but smile back at him.

  The musicians moved directly into another song, one with slow, long-held notes that seemed to invite a lingering conversation. Mr.
Ackerman propped his elbow on the seat back and leaned in a bit. “What is your favorite scripture?”

  Dinah raised her brows. “Scripture?”

  “Yes. Your favorite Bible verse.”

  “Oh …” She grimaced. “I don’t really have one yet, but I like the part about the man who went looking for his lost lamb.” Thinking of the story again, and recalling how the preacher likened the man’s search to God’s desire to save every lost soul, created a sweet ache in the center of her breast. But the story wasn’t a scripture, which was what Mr. Ackerman had requested. She hoped her reply wouldn’t disappoint him. To her relief no frown marred his face.

  “You are new to believing in God, then.” A statement rather than a question.

  Her knowledge was only as long as her time in Florence—a scant four months. “That’s right.”

  He smiled, his expression tender. “In time you will find those scriptures that speak to you more deeply than others, but all of God’s words are beneficial.”

  She smiled, finding confirmation that her interest in the Bible story met with his approval.

  “May I share one of my favorites with you?”

  Curious to hear what he’d say, Dinah nodded.

  “From Philippians, the fourth chapter, ‘I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.’ ”

  When he quoted from the Bible, his voice took on a different tone—peaceful, sure, intimate. A tiny chill of pleasure quivered through her frame. “The words are lovely.” They were, even though she wasn’t certain what they meant.