by Linda Ford
“You are correct, Mr. Winston.” Though not because I’m afraid of the water. The conversation had gone far enough. She wanted no questions about her reason for attendance—not with tears threatening. Nor did she want him to find her lacking in proper manners and judge her to be a woman of low behavior. She gave him a polite smile. “Thank you for your kind reassurance and assistance, sir. I’m most appreciative.”
He took a step back and made her a polite bow. “My pleasure, Miss Bradley.”
The steamer gave another lurch, headed into the wind and started around the outcropping. The rain slanted in between the decks. She clung to the railing and stared out over the water until Grant Winston’s footsteps faded away and there was only the patter of the rain against the hood and shoulder cape of her waterproof coat, and the whisper of the water against the ship. A well-brought-up young woman did not look after a young man—not even a kind, helpful one.
She let out a long breath and turned her thoughts to the two letters in her purse. Who had prompted those in charge of the Chautauqua Assembly to send her an invitation to lecture on temperance? Could it be the Mrs. Tobin Swan who had written asking her to lead a group of women in protest against the local vineyards and wineries? Her lips lifted in a grim smile. Wine had destroyed her family. It would be a pleasure to stop its production at its very source.
“Grant me success, Lord, I pray.” Her determination firmed. The solitude of the rainy deck was the perfect place to rehearse her lectures. The more she practiced them, the less chance that she would make an error or miss including an important point when she was speaking.
* * *
Grant leaned on the rail and watched the foaming water churned up by the side wheel. It was hard to imagine having a fear of the water. Going for a swim was his favorite way to end a summer workday. But then, he’d learned to swim when he was four years old. Of necessity. Of course, he’d been plenty afraid that day.
He stared down at the lake water and thought back to the moment when he’d stepped on the wet mud at the edge of their pond and slid into the cold water. Fortunately, he’d instinctively pushed hard when his feet hit the stony bottom. A grin slanted his lips. That push combined with the frantic flailing of his arms and legs had brought him back up to the top of the water where he could gasp in air. He’d stretched his arm out in an effort to reach the bank, kicked his feet and stretched out his other arm trying to get closer, and suddenly he was swimming on top of the water instead of sinking to the bottom. Of course, the pond was shallow at that end. Not more than five feet deep even during a spring runoff. Things would have ended differently had he fallen in the deep end.
His grin faded. He’d not thought about that before. He’d best fence that pond if he ever married and had children of his own. He straightened and moved down the railing, leaned against a post and watched the lights of Mayville disappear as the steamer rounded the outcropping. His mother and father were eager for him to marry and produce an heir. Being an only child had its responsibilities—a fact that they pointed out to him more and more frequently of late. It wasn’t that he had any objections to being married. He wanted a wife and family the same as any man. He just hadn’t met a woman he’d found interesting enough to hold his attention. Although Miss Bradley was definitely intriguing. And she was a “miss.” She hadn’t corrected him when he addressed her as such. And she hadn’t simpered about it, either. He hated that coy behavior.
Muted laughter and voices drifted his way from the crowded passenger lounge at his back. He wiped the rain from his face, stepped over into the silence by the side railing and slid his gaze toward the front of the steamer. She was still there. A dark silhouette against the flickering, rain-streaked light of one of the ship’s lanterns.
Miss Bradley was different all right. He wasn’t accustomed to a young woman dismissing him from her presence. And he’d never known any woman who shunned society for solitude. Or one who didn’t hurry inside as quickly as possible when it rained. So why was she standing out in the chilly, rainy night alone? And what had caused the sadness he’d seen in her eyes? Her lovely blue eyes.
The steamer cleared the outcropping. Pinpricks of light flickered against the darkness ahead. He pushed back the edges of his mackintosh, shoved his hands in his trousers pockets and leaned back against a post studying the shifting pattern of lights. He’d intended to find out the schedule and attend only the science classes at the Chautauqua Assembly in the hope of finding a way to increase yield at the vineyard. But that was before his chance encounter with the intriguing Miss Bradley. Now he would come to Fair Point as often as he could get away from the vineyard. Foolishness perhaps; the assembly would last for only two weeks. But that would give him time enough to find out the answers to those questions.
A ship’s whistle floated through the dark, rainy night. Bells pealed. Tiny lights danced on the water, approached the docking area miles ahead at Fair Point. A frown tugged his brow down. Another steamer was bringing a couple hundred or more attendees to the Chautauqua campgrounds from the other end of the lake. The swarm of people would make finding Miss Bradley difficult. But he liked a challenge...
* * *
Marissa stared at the lights gleaming along the shore and peeking through the trees on the hill. The assembly was much larger than she’d imagined. “Oh, my! There are so many lights they look like a swarm of fireflies.”
“And I should think most of those who will be attending the assembly have not yet arrived.” The young woman crowding against the railing on her left smiled and tilted the umbrella she held against the changing direction of the wind. “I know some are staying at the hotels in Mayville. They don’t care to live at the camp. And I’m certain there are many others who will live in their accustomed comfort and only attend daily—when they so choose. My aunt is numbered among them. As for me, the next two weeks should be very exciting. I’ve never spent time in the woods. And with all the meetings and entertainments—”
The steamer’s whistle drowned out the young woman’s voice. Bells ashore pealed out an answer to the ship’s signal. The steamer lurched, slowed. Water slapped against the side then rolled off to wash up onshore. They came to a full stop.
“We’ve arrived! I must find my cousin.” The young woman spun about and joined the other passengers.
The deck seethed with people clutching their bags and umbrellas and jockeying for position in the line to disembark. She pulled her small dangling purse into her hand and pressed back against the side railing to wait for the crush of people to thin.
Shouts came from all directions. Crew members jumped to the dock, caught ropes that were thrown to them from aboard the ship and wrapped them around thick posts. The disembarking plank hit the dock with a thud.
“All ashore for Fair Point and for the Chautauqua Assembly!”
The hum of conversation aboard ship died. People pressed forward, umbrellas bumping. Farther down the deck, crew members hefted trunks onto their shoulders and carried them ashore. Hers was riding on the beefy shoulder of a man twice as broad as the plank they trod. She held her breath when the plank sagged beneath the man’s weight and hoped her trunk didn’t leak.
“Come along, miss.”
A deckhand motioned her forward. She tugged her hood farther down over her forehead and stepped into the line at the top of the wide gangway. Lantern light from posts at the end of the dock shone on the water between the steamer and the shore. It looked deep. Rain pocked the dark surface, danced on the plank and the dock. Was the plank slippery? An image of her sliding off the side into that dark water flashed into her head. She frowned and moved forward with the line, grateful she’d worn her boots instead of packing them. The couple in front of her stepped onto the gangway. She was next. She clenched her fingers about her purse and wished for a railing to hold on to.
“We meet again, Miss Bradley.”
G
rant Winston smiled and moved away from the steamer’s railing, stepped into line beside her. Had he been waiting there for her? Such forwardness was unacceptable. But she was too grateful for his strong, solid presence to demur. She nodded and moved onto the wide gangway, her steps steadier and less timid because he walked beside her.
“Those with admittance passes go to the line on my right please. Those without passes go to the line on my left.”
She lifted her gaze beyond the man standing in the center of the dock a short distance ahead directing passengers. A small shingled building stood at the far end of the weathered boards, the lanterns hanging from hooks on the small structure illuminating the two lines flowing toward open gates at each side. The dark tree-covered hill sprinkled with lights rose a short way beyond. Her stomach flopped. How was she to find her way? Unless...She drew her gaze back, hoping. “I’m to be on the right, Mr. Winston.”
“And I on the left. I’ve decided to purchase a pass for the full two weeks.” He smiled and bowed her across in front of him, stepped into the other line.
Her hope flickered then steadied. Perhaps Mr. Winston would find her again when they had both cleared the gates. She swallowed her trepidation, extracted her speaking invitation with its attached pass of admittance from her purse and followed those ahead of her to the gatehouse.
“Next, please.”
A quick glance to her left showed Grant Winston’s line was moving much slower. The prospect of receiving any help from him vanished. She stepped up to the side window and handed her invitation to the man inside the small house.
“Ah, you are one of our speakers. It’s good to have you with us, Miss Bradley.” The bearded man smiled and motioned behind him. “Mr. Johnson will show you to the accommodations for teachers and speakers. Tell him about your baggage.”
“Thank you.” She breathed a sigh of relief as he waved her through the gate, then paused as a man garbed in a black waterproof with a piece of blanket draped over his shoulder stepped forward.
“Mr. Johnson at your service, Miss Bradley. Have you any baggage?”
She nodded, scanned the piles of trunks. “That alligator, camelback Saratoga sitting on top of the near pile is mine.”
“Very good, miss. If you will follow me please.” The man hefted her trunk to his blanket-draped shoulder and started across the narrow strip of flat land to a beaten path that disappeared into the trees on the hill. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder. Mr. Winston was standing by the gatehouse looking her way. Her cheeks warmed as their gazes met. She averted hers lest he think her bold and stepped onto the path.
“Watch your step, Miss Bradley. The rain makes the fallen leaves slippery.”
It was an understatement. Everything was slippery. And dark. Torches sitting in boxes of what looked like sand atop posts spaced along the way sputtered out light useful only for guidance. She stopped trying to hold her skirt hems up to keep them from becoming soiled and simply tried to maintain her balance and not become separated from her guide among the throng of people on the path.
* * *
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Johnson.” The flap door of the tent fell into place behind the departing guide. Rain pelted the sloped canvas roof, dripped off the overhanging eaves outside. Marissa shivered and cast a wary glance up at the sagging pockets where the edges of the four roof sections met the tent walls.
“Don’t touch those! It makes them leak.”
She shifted her gaze to the slender, dark-haired woman with whom she would live for the next two weeks. Light from a lantern sitting on a small writing desk revealed a glint of amusement in the young woman’s gray eyes.
“I don’t mean to sound bossy, but I learned that lesson the hard way. That’s why I’m working here in the center of the floor.” The young woman laughed and gestured toward a large wet spot on the rough board floor beside the far tent wall. A drop of water hit the wood, splattered.
Marissa glanced up at the sagging canvas above the wet spot. Another drop formed, fell. Oh, dear...
“I thought it would be smart to push up on that sagging part of the roof and shove the pooled water over the side. I was wrong. When I let go, it started dripping where my hands had touched the canvas.” The woman pulled a face and waved her hand toward the juncture of roof and wall. “As you can see, it’s still dripping. But only there—nowhere else, though it looks as if it will. Anyway, I’ll move the desk back as soon as the rain stops and the canvas dries.”
“Thank you for the warning.” She looked at the woman and laughed. “I thought, perhaps, I would have to sleep in my waterproof.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Indeed.” She swept her gaze over the furnishings in the surprisingly spacious tent. There were two cots, two chairs, a desk and, thankfully, a washstand equipped with a pitcher and washbowl. A bucket of water holding a tin dipper sat on the floor beside it.
“There’s a pump and a stone fire pit with a huge iron pot two tents down that way.” The woman swept her hand to the right. “We’re to get our water there. Someone from the camp tends the fire that keeps the water in the pot warm. It’s a luxury I didn’t expect.”
“I’m not familiar with tent living, so any further bits of wisdom you care to share will be appreciated.” She shoved the hood of her waterproof back off her head and shot a wary look at the unmade cot. The guide had placed her trunk beside it. Both sat beneath one of those sagging pockets of rain. “It will also be to your advantage as we are to be housemates—or perhaps I should say tent mates.” She looked back at the young woman and smiled. “Thank you for sharing your quarters with me. I’m Marissa Bradley.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Temperance?”
“Yes.” She braced herself, resisted the temptation to ask how the woman knew. Temperance was not a favored subject with many women. They preferred to hide from the truth. She had done so for five years. And her mother.
“You’re very young and pretty to be a crusader. I admire your courage. And I’ll be writing about you and your lectures. Make them good, for if they’re not, I’ll not hesitate to say so.” The young woman came forward, peered straight into her eyes. “I’m Clarice Gordon. I write articles for the Sunday School Journal. And for other papers on occasion, so you must take my warning seriously.”
“I shall, Miss Gordon.”
“And, as we’ll be sharing living quarters for two weeks, I suggest we dispense with formality and call each other by our given names. Would you agree, Marissa?”
How forward! Still, it made sense. “I would indeed, Clarice.”
“Good. Then the air is clear between us. Now—” Clarice Gordon gestured toward a tall, clean section of tree root standing upright beside the flap. A blue waterproof dangled from one of the high roots. “Behold our coatrack. Why don’t you hang up your waterproof and I’ll help you make up your bed? You did bring bed linens with you?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. They were on the list.” She shrugged out of her coat and hung it up to drip-dry, shivered in the damp air and hurried to her trunk to get her quilted cotton jacket. “What do we do for meals, Clarice?”
“We go to the hotel.”
She jerked erect, her bed linens in her hands. “A hotel!”
Clarice laughed and shook her head. “It’s only called that. It’s a rather poor excuse for a building, but it is made of wood.”
“I see.” She shook out a sheet and spread it over the mattress tick, placed her hand on the surface and felt for the stuffing material. Cornhusks. “And the food?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure of dining at the hotel. I only caught a glimpse of it when my guide showed me where it was located. It’s downhill a short way from here.”
“Everything is downhill from here.” She shot Clarice a wry look, spread the top sheet and reached for a b
lanket.
“That’s true.” Her tent mate grasped the edge of the blanket, looked up and grinned. “But there is one advantage. Your prayers will have a head start over those offered from below.”
As if that mattered. She smoothed the blanket over her side of the cot then pulled out the pillow she’d jammed into the trunk lid and fluffed the feathers. It was too late for prayers—Lincoln was dead.
* * *
“What do you mean you’re going to this Chautauqua Sunday School Assembly thing? Isn’t going to church on Sunday good enough for you?”
Grant placed his wet shoes on the hearth, looked at his father’s set face and braced himself for a long discussion. “The assembly is not only about church. I went to Fair Point tonight and bought a pass for the entire two weeks.”
“Besides, more church teaching is always a good thing, Andrew.” His mother looked at his father and smiled. “And I’m sure there are a lot of lovely young Christian woman attending the Chautauqua classes.”
Oh-ho. He tugged off his damp socks and glanced over at the settee. His mother always had such a lovely, serene look about her, but there was a she-bear inside her that reared up and charged to his defense whenever his father was displeased about something he said or did. He was her only child and could do no wrong in her sight—with the exception of his not getting married.
He dropped his socks beside his shoes and rushed to defuse her implications. “That’s true, Mother. But it’s the science classes being offered at Chautauqua that interest me. I’m hoping by attending I will learn something that will help me better care for the vines and increase their yield and thus our profits.” A pair of beautiful but sad blue eyes flashed before him. And to satisfy my curiosity about Miss Bradley.
“We’re doing all right.”
His father’s gruff words pulled his thoughts away from the intriguing young woman and focused them on their situation. He shot a glance toward the settee and tempered his response. His mother did not know about the demand note his father had taken against the coming harvest to meet expenses after the killing cold last winter had destroyed so many of the old vines.