“If he bit anyone, it would be only because he was defending himself,” Garnet responded with a slight smile. “Which means the person deserves to be bitten.” Behind her, Leah smothered a giggle. “But if he makes you nervous—”
“Certainly not, it’s just that—”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind snoozing on the window seat in the dining room.”
“I’ll take him,” Leah offered, coming forward to scoop the docile fox up into her arms. “It’s a mystery, this strange bond he and Garnet share,” she told Felicity. “I’m on your side as far as animals in the parlor. But who can resist this innocent furry face?”
“I can, quite easily.” Felicity tugged off her white kid gloves, and even this pedestrian act seemed graceful, practiced. She was outfitted today in a pretty striped silk visiting dress embellished with lace. Chosen to impress, Garnet knew. She wanted to laugh, because the effect was wasted on her and Leah. Neither of them cared a fig about fine fashion.
“I once had a lovely fox stole,” Felicity said. “Striking shade of red . . . always received compliments when I wore it. Your little pet’s tail is mighty tempting, so full and lustrous—oh, do pull in your claws, girls. I was merely teasing.” She watched Leah march stormy-faced through the doorway, setting the portiere’s fringes to waving. “Your sister doesn’t care much for my sense of humor, does she?”
“Leah tends to be a literal-minded person.”
Felicity waved a hand in dismissal and fastened her bright blue eyes on Garnet. “Well? Have you thought about my offer?” The artist wasn’t one for wasting time or mincing words. It was very un-Southern for someone who prided herself on her mother’s heritage.
“Yes, I have.” Garnet kept her expression bland and gestured toward a couple of parlor chairs. “But much as it might be beneficial to me, my answer is still no. Leah leaves next week for Mary Baldwin College. My father would be alone.”
“I’ve talked to your father. He very much wants you to go, Garnet. He’s a grown man and can feed himself fried ham and a dish of greens or something for a few weeks. He agrees with me, you see. Accompanying me on my lecture circuit would open doors for you, far beyond the limited exposure your charming sketches reap in the American Monthly.”
She leaned forward, her skirts whispering like hundreds of hushed voices. “Garnet, I’ve come to know you over the summer. For the most part, you and I are complete opposites. You’re a composed young lady content to hide your light in the rural backwoods of the Valley. I, on the other hand, am an ambitious upstart.” She grinned, unrepentant. “An interfering, obnoxious woman meddling in your affairs.”
“I wouldn’t go quite that far.”
“Do you know, I believe you smile like that fox of yours.”
They both laughed. Then Felicity clasped her hands, and her expression sobered. “Garnet, you have a lot of talent. But you’re squandering it, no matter how much you protest. With the right kind of guidance—and yes, I do believe I can offer that—within a few years you could be putting on shows of your own. Certainly I’ll ensure that you commission more work than monthly illustrations. How much does Jan Smoot pay you?”
She sneaked in the last inquiry, but Garnet wasn’t fooled by the too casual tone. “How much do you sell your paintings for?”
After a trenchant pause Felicity sat back, one black eyebrow delicately arched. “Very good. Point taken, my dear.” Garnet could almost see the thoughts churning behind the elaborate rows of ringlets arranged across her forehead.
Garnet silently admitted to a prick of envy over the other woman’s indefatigable confidence, though fame no doubt fueled Felicity Ward’s dominating personality. A master at controlling conversations, she enjoyed tossing out questions and opinions, all the time holding her listeners with the intense focus of those thickly lashed blue eyes. She reminded Garnet of the chipmunks that darted about the barn, searching for ways to raid the grain barrels.
Well, she’d have to dig in a new barrel in another barn. Garnet kept her smile in place and tried for a bright-eyed expression of her own.
“You consider your talent a gift from God. Am I correct?” Felicity tried next.
“Yes, I do. And I’ll tell you before you bring it up, I also consider that how I make use of the gift is between God and me.”
“Do you honestly expect the Almighty to provide you with that insight? How do you know what you’re supposed to do?”
“I don’t always know,” Garnet admitted. “I just know that, when I sit in a meadow full of flowers or beside a rocky creek with a row of lady’s slippers along the bank, a—a need arises in me to capture them on paper. And I know I can do it.”
“That’s how I feel too. Don’t you see, Garnet? Call it God, call it whatever you care to—both of us are artists, and we need to fulfill that destiny. But I’ve learned to reach for a destiny far beyond the childish dabbling of a schoolgirl. And I like to feel that God has rewarded my efforts. Oh, do say you’ll reconsider accompanying me.”
She hesitated, her hands smoothing the V-shaped velvet trim on her basque. “Garnet, I . . . this is difficult for me. I like you,” she finished, a diffidence in her voice Garnet had never heard. “And I think the two of us would get along famously together. I’d introduce you to my acquaintances in the art world, and you would be my traveling companion . . .”
“I’ll think about it,” Garnet said and stood. “But that’s all I can promise.”
“It’s more than I’ve managed to wrest from you before.” Felicity rose as well, the fragrance of roses enveloping Garnet when the other woman took her hand and gave it a brief squeeze. “I’m having a soiree in my hotel suite. A week from today. I’d like for you and your family to attend.”
“I don’t think—”
“You don’t have to stay long, no more than an hour. Say yes.”
“I’ll talk it over with my family.”
A mischievous smile spread across Felicity’s face. “I already have. They’re willing and agree the outing would be good for you. Bring your doctor friend, if you like.” She squeezed Garnet’s hand once more, then let it go. “I confess I’ve longed for an opportunity to meet the infamous Dr. MacAllister, but all my little schemes thus far have failed. I’ve even considered feigning some monstrous illness or exotic condition. Of course, from what I hear, if you requested his services as your escort—”
“He’d feel just as inclined to turn me down.” Garnet walked into the hallway, forcing Felicity to follow. “If you’re that interested in meeting Dr. MacAllister, you could always make an appointment. I understand his fee is fifty dollars.” She opened the front door. “I believe I’ll be busy next week and won’t be able to attend your soiree. But thank you for the invitation.”
“It’s unusual for someone with your coloring to lose her temper with such quiet dignity.” The artist patted Garnet’s cheek before working the kid gloves back onto her hands. “When we’re on the road together, you’ll have to ignore my brashness. And perhaps I’ll learn to emulate your dignity.”
Garnet closed the door behind her, almost catching the trailing hem of Felicity’s fancy visiting gown. When she turned around, Leah was clattering down the stairs.
“I heard—was on the landing. What a bucket of slop. Soiree,” she mimicked Felicity’s patrician, unaccented tone. “Perhaps we should attend. We can wear our favorite flour-sack dresses. I’ll borrow one of your older sunbonnets, and Papa can purchase a pair of overalls from Cooper’s.”
“We can even stick some straw in our hair.”
But after Leah returned upstairs, Garnet fetched Phineas and headed for Sinclair Creek. She spent a pensive hour there, sitting on the bank, splashing her bare feet in the shallow water, wondering what to do about Felicity Ward’s incredible offer. About Sloan and the raw uncertainty of the love that had pushed its way into her heart.
About a God she had believed in all her life, but whose will remained indecipherable. She wanted to talk with Him as her
father did. As Sloan did.
But what if Felicity was right and God didn’t answer?
Sloan finished scrubbing the last corner of his bedroom floor, staggered to his feet, and dropped the filthy rag into the bucket. Sweat plastered his shirt to his skin and made his scalp itch like the very dickens. His muscles felt as though they’d been trampled by a herd of buffalo. Sometimes he wondered if he’d completely lost his mind, wasting himself in manual labor. Scrubbing floors! He’d never take such menial chores for granted again, that was for certain.
Yet the satisfaction in watching the old house gleam with new life outweighed the exhaustion and helped to ease a pervasive sense of . . . incompleteness.
Groaning, he headed outside to sprawl at the base of the hickory tree, the one that had hurled a limb down on Jacob and Sloan that momentous afternoon. Seemed like yesterday. Seemed like forever.
Garnet . . .
He should be too exhausted to need to see her, and in fact his intense labors over the past ten days had been calculated to pummel the need to numbness. Thus far his plan had proved unsuccessful. The feel of her in his arms, that miraculous moment when their lips had met and a spring of indefinable joy had welled up in him—the memory still rocked him beyond the exhaustion, beyond the pain of his self-imposed exile.
More often than not over the past weeks, Sloan still felt the same kick of stupefaction and helplessness as when he’d been tangled beneath the branches of that shorn limb. Nothing like falling for a woman to mess up a man’s mind. Whenever Sloan was with Garnet, love clouded his brain, turning his resolution to cold oatmeal, his reason to emotional mush. All Garnet had to do was to look up at him through those great vulnerable eyes of hers, and he was ready to saw his arm off with a dull pocketknife to avoid causing her more heartache. Yet heartache was all he had to offer.
Garnet, he knew, admired his so-called relationship with God. And Sloan, egotistical hypocrite that he was, couldn’t bear to disillusion her with a confession of the depth of his—
With a half-stifled imprecation he banged the back of his head against the peeling bark.
His shame.
Christians weren’t supposed to feel shame. The ugly emotion, with its corrosive patina of unworthiness, its humiliation and stench of guilt, were alien to Jesus’ gospel of grace.
Sloan knew—and could not heed. The spiritual silence of the past few weeks cloaked him in a desolation that overshadowed even the love he felt for Garnet.
He wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything in his life, including the childhood dream that had propelled him into medicine. But he was afraid he could not live up to Garnet’s expectations of a faith Sloan could no longer claim.
And he was . . . ashamed.
If he possessed an ounce of integrity, he’d amputate his presence from Sinclair Run in order to save her life.
Even now, Lord, I think in medical analogies. If I go back . . . He stopped the thought, leaned back against the tree, and closed his eyes.
Jacob watched from his workshop as Mrs. Ward’s carriage departed. Watched when, a short while later, Garnet slipped wraithlike onto the porch and drifted toward the run, the fox hugging her heels. Lord, he prayed, regret in his heart and acid churning in the pit of his stomach, what are we to do about Garnet?
The girl was a mixed-up mass of contradictions. Uncertain as an orphaned fawn with Sloan, wise as a fox eluding a hunter with the charming Mrs. Ward. What would she have been like, this red-haired lass of his, if she hadn’t stumbled onto that band of murderous no-count varmints? Jacob chewed over it for a bit, wishing for words, for wisdom. “Even for wit, Lord.” Garnet usually responded to the pull of humor when she couldn’t be reached any other way.
Thus far, neither his cautious meddling nor Leah’s logical arguments nor Mrs. Ward’s forthright machinations had elicited a response from the girl. Garnet, Jacob knew, was hoping Sloan would pay a call, even though she wouldn’t talk about him or even refer to his last visit ten days ago now. As for Sloan . . . och, what’s the problem with the lad? It’s almost September, Lord. He’s the one, isn’t he? The one You’ve chosen for Garnet? Sloan understood the significance of the cardinal feather, after all. And ’twas plain as oak grain that Garnet was smitten.
The very first time he’d taken her for a buggy ride, when Garnet returned with cheeks blooming like wild roses and Sloan gazing at her as though she were the most precious gift in the universe . . . Jacob had been beside himself, waiting for the fellow to speak to him as a prospective suitor for Garnet’s hand.
Instead, Sloan’s subsequent behavior toward the lass would put Joshua Jones to shame. And now, ’twas ten days since Sloan’s last visit. He’d not even sent along a note.
Timing.
“Aye, to everything there is a season, I know.” He tugged a rag from his back pocket and mopped the perspiration from his forehead. Seasons came, seasons went in accordance with a grand plan, and there was naught a man could do to alter or control the timing.
All Jacob could do was follow the example of the humble Jewish carpenter who had become the earthly father to God’s Son. Doubtless Joseph hadn’t understood either the timing or the significance of God’s leading—but he had obeyed without question.
Obeyed and faded quietly into the background.
Shoulders sagging, Jacob accepted the gentle rebuke. Resolutely he returned to the only work for which he could assume control, the walnut kneehole desk for a banker down in Harrisonburg. But for a father, ’twas a hard task, waiting patiently in the background for God to accomplish His purpose in the lives of Jacob’s daughters.
Especially when they all seemed to be making a fine muddle of things.
Twenty-Two
It was refreshingly cool for late August, with a deep Ming blue sky momentarily free from humidity. For some reason Sloan had awakened that morning with a smile on his face. Head bared to the sun as he sat astride Dulcie, he found himself simply enjoying the beauties of God’s creation, laid out for his pleasure on either side of the winding road into Tom’s Brook. Yellow butterflies drifted in the clear sunshine. Energetic grasshoppers jigged about the tall grasses on either side of the road. Cicadas droned from the trees.
Only when he caught himself admiring a cluster of purplish flowers and wondering how Garnet would depict them on paper did the glory of the morning dim. It would be today, he realized. Today he would hitch Dulcie to the buggy and return to Sinclair Run. He still didn’t know what to do, but for the first time in weeks he was willing to relinquish the outcome to God’s will instead of his own.
By the time he reached the drygoods store in Tom’s Brook, he was focused on the business at hand. After tying the mare next to a flop-eared mule, Sloan stepped inside and threaded his way down the narrow center aisle of the store, squeezing past showcases crammed with articles of clothing from shirtwaists and shirtfronts to paper collars, corsets, a tilted tower of derby hats, and several neighbors.
“G’morning, Doc!”
“Morning, Dr. MacAllister!”
“Saw you finished painting your house, Doc! Never seen a yeller house, but it turned out mighty fine.”
“Thanks, Homer.” He stepped around a rack of overalls and jumpers. “I’m starting on the shutters next—thought about black, or maybe dark green.”
Sometime over the summer Sloan’s curmudgeon act with local folk had waned with the moon. Most people no longer pestered him about their medical complaints, though they persisted in calling him Doc. Sloan conceded the honorary title. It was the truth, and since he’d slipped up twice, treating a couple of emergency cases, it was ludicrous to take umbrage any longer.
“Fact is,” he said to Homer now, “I’m here to place an order for the paint. Say, how about giving me a hand? Which color would you choose?”
Homer, plainly flattered, launched into a detailed comparison of the two colors. Within moments, two graybearded farmers who had been hunched over the checkerboard in front of the stove joined in, fo
llowed by several other customers and Mrs. Rawls, the proprietor’s wife. Sides were drawn between those favoring green versus the ones arguing for black. Sloan found himself trapped in the middle, against the counter, his back pressed to a display case of J&P Coats Company sewing thread.
“Here now, this ain’t the town square!” Vernon Rawls emerged from a back room, his arms full of a stack of men’s dungarees. “You all know I try to keep this center aisle clear. You want a debate, you take it outside or over yonder behind the stove.”
Muttering, he elbowed his way behind the counter and caught sight of Sloan. The craggy face registered surprise. He handed the dungarees to his wife and thrust out a nail-chipped paw of a hand. “Doc MacAllister—didn’t see you there.”
Sloan understood the man’s consternation. Lately he surprised himself with his sporadic flares of amiability.
“Got a letter for you,” Vernon announced after they shook hands. “Came the other day. Baltimore postmark. Meant to have Homer carry it by your place, seeing as how you’re neighbors. Now the both of you are here, so’s it won’t be necessary.” He chuckled. “Hang on, let me just fetch it for you.”
“Thanks, Vernon.”
An interested silence bloomed. A half-dozen pairs of bright eyes watched Sloan. He waited with his arms folded across his chest, his heart thudding in a hard, arrhythmic beat far above his normal sixty-two per minute. The letter was probably from his lawyer, who had been managing Sloan’s affairs since he left Adlerville. After the first two months, everyone else had given up trying to correspond.
Surely it was just a letter from his lawyer.
Most Southern country stores also functioned as the community post office, complete with an official oak partition, locked mailboxes, and a stamp and delivery window. Vernon grabbed a thick oblong envelope from Sloan’s numbered box and thrust it through the window.
“Here you go, Doc. Ah . . . something wrong?”
Shenandoah Home (Sinclair Legacy Book 1) Page 17