Henry recalled the elders’ meetings before the library was built—the mulling of petitions, the allocating of resources, and the hours of deliberation on the books that might one day fill it. It had taken all of his strength to not jump into the debates on either side; it wouldn’t have mattered which side so long as his voice had been heard. Between the meetings, he’d had his father’s ear. That was when he’d been able to influence the progress. “They approved the library because you were the printer and would be in charge of creating and maintaining the collection.”
“Son, I’m no librarian.”
“Nor am I.”
“I’m a papermaker.”
“And you already support your family with the farm.”
Matthew lifted an authoritative brow. “The print shop should be your occupation. We will get you the orders you need to trade for a living. I could help you with the press at first, but you don’t need me.”
“I work better by myself.” Henry scanned the one-room former cabin. From the impeccably arranged top drawers of type to the organized worktable, every detail of the print shop was falling under his management. His father had already given him control, and it was time he accepted it. “The village needs paper and you could produce enough if Simon took over the farming. The village also needs a printer and should support the making of books.”
“Then we agree.” Matthew rubbed his wooly side whiskers. “I will speak to the elders.”
Agreeing with his father didn’t mean he would get his way with the elder council. He shook his head. “Since this involves me, I prefer to speak for myself.”
“As the elder, I must present the requests from my family to the council. They will have questions for you, to be sure, but I see no reason for them to deny you the living.”
In the eight years since the families of Good Springs gathered at the Ashton family’s estate in Accomack County and planned the group migration, the one thing Henry had come to expect was a fervent debate on every issue. This time their debate would determine his future. The challenge lit a spark in his chest. “And if the elders object, there is always room for persuasion.”
“Persuasion?” Matthew chuckled as he walked out. “If you could make a living out of that, you would be the richest man in the Land.”
Chapter Three
Hannah flipped through a stack of loose pages until she found the scene in her story she wanted to revise. In the soft light of her oil lamp, her tired eyes lost focus, blurring the pencil markings. She leaned over her narrow writing desk and mindlessly tapped her fingers on the page in dull thumps. Her scene needed a complete rewrite.
Doris stirred in her sleep, rustling the quilt on her side of the bed they shared. Hannah’s fingers stilled their tapping. She should go to bed, but her characters wouldn’t let her rest. With the children asleep, she could finally hear her own thoughts, which were filled with snippets of a story she’d tried to tell for years.
The story barely resembled her first naive draft. Originally, the young maiden Adeline’s epic adventure began when she was forced to take a perilous voyage across a monster-filled sea. The sentences were strings of flowery prose Hannah’s mind had compiled from old fairy tale books.
She’d read those first chapters to her pregnant mother, who always summoned the strength to smile and praise her talent. After the twins were born, her mother’s illness worsened. Hannah’s days were long and draining, but her desperate imagination raced with creative energy. She poured her soul onto the page by adding a love story to the adventurous plot. Adeline survived the voyage to a foreign land and met Aric, the brave and prosperous prince.
When Hannah’s mother passed away, the story felt simplistic, worthless. Without her mother’s approval and input, she questioned everything she wrote. She summoned the courage to ask Olivia to read it in secret. Olivia made grammar and spelling corrections, but it was her advice on plot and character that ignited Hannah’s desire to reshape the story into a masterpiece, though no one else would ever read it.
Suspenseful layers began to develop. Adeline and Aric were forbidden to court, so they had to meet secretly to evade the evil queen. Just when they had formed a plan to marry, Adeline was captured by a neighboring kingdom and forced into slavery.
Olivia had lauded the way Hannah changed the story and encouraged her to keep growing in her craft.
Now Adeline’s character yearned to stretch beyond her storybook limitations. She wasn’t happy with the future Prince Aric offered. Ambition was bubbling inside her, but she had no goal to challenge her and prove her strength. Maybe there was something bigger for Adeline back in her homeland. Maybe not. Either way, she couldn’t spend her life sitting prettily in a musty castle while the prince was away on his own adventures.
Doris stirred again, and Hannah feared she was unsettling her sister by keeping the light burning so late. She tucked her last piece of blank paper under her elbow, slid a pencil behind her ear, and carried her lamp through the parlor, walking carefully, quietly.
As she rounded the fireplace and stepped into the kitchen, the glow from her lamp illumined a figure at the far end of the table. Her pulse quickened before recognition set in. “Father? What are you doing up?”
Christopher raked his fingers through his loose, gray hair. “Couldn’t sleep. You?”
“I could sleep if I went to bed, but I need to write.” She set her lamp on the center of the table. “Would you like a cup of water?”
He shook his head and grinned a little, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You used to say want.”
“Hm?”
“You used to say you want to write. Now you say you need to write.”
She filled a cup halfway then sat in front of her lamp, leaving two empty chairs between her and her father. “I don’t think it means anything.”
“I do.” Christopher propped his elbows on the table and peered at her over his folded hands. Fatigue softened his kind eyes. “What are you writing about tonight?”
“I don’t know.”
“Or you want to keep it to yourself?”
“No, I really don’t know where to start.” She broke his gaze. “And yes, I prefer to keep my writing to myself.”
He leaned back in his chair and tucked one hand into his nightshirt. He used to only do that when the room was cold, but as he got older, he did it more often. “Your mother loved hearing your story.”
He let the silence hang as if his statement were a question.
Hannah had no reason to keep her writing from her father, nor did she have a reason to believe he would appreciate it. Oh, he would understand the words and the actions. He’d probably praise her efforts, but the deeper nuisances of Adeline’s yearning and Aric’s appeal would be lost on him. It would be lost on anyone, except her mother and Olivia.
When she didn’t reply, he tried again, tapping a finger on her blank page this time. “And I’m sure it’s a good story or Olivia wouldn’t keep helping you with it after all these years.”
“She’s taught me grammar and the finer points of storytelling that she says all the great writers must learn.”
“God has bestowed upon you a zeal for your craft in addition to natural talent. I hope you will share your writing with me someday.” His voice lessened in volume, bearing the sadness of loss. “Your mother wanted you to finish the story.”
Hannah’s gaze shot to him. “I did. I have finished it. Many times.” She thought of all the changes she’d made over the years and stared at the blank paper. “But then I’m not satisfied with it, and I go back and change the story. And then I have to rewrite other parts.”
“Perhaps you don’t want it to end.”
Of course, she wanted her story to end. What would be the point of writing every day if there were no completion? Every day for years, the scenes had played in her mind as she’d cooked and cleaned and bathed muddy children. She’d physically worked to keep her promise to her mother, and she’d mentally worked on her story to
finish it. “Completion is eluding me, that’s all.”
“What do you need?”
She flipped up the corner of her last blank page. “More paper.”
“I’ll find something to take to Mr. Roberts tomorrow and trade for paper.”
“No, I want to trade for my own paper. I’ll take him some of the extra candles I made.”
“Very well.” Her father tilted his head. “However, I suspect you need more than paper.”
She shrugged, awaiting his suggestion.
“Perhaps you need the motivation to finish the story.”
“I have a motivator… satisfaction. I want to finish the story in a way that pleases me.”
“By when?”
She shrugged again.
“For whom?”
She didn’t understand his question. “For me.” When he gazed blankly, she tried once more. “For Mother?”
He remained silent for a moment, staring at his hands then he shifted in his seat. “My father, your Grandpa Vestal, died a week after his fiftieth birthday. I didn’t receive word until a month after his passing. The news of his death came as a shock. He’d been a robust man, no sign of illness. His heart gave out at only fifty years of age.”
Hannah listened, half wishing she could sit in the lamplight with her father all night and half wishing he’d go to bed so she could be alone and write.
“I think of his death more often now that my fiftieth birthday is approaching.”
“Your birthday is in March. Today is the Sixteenth of November.”
He held up a finger. “The Seventeenth. It’s past midnight.”
“Still, your birthday is four months away.”
“Four months spends quickly at my age, dear.” He grinned, creasing the skin around his eyes, but solemnness replaced his pleasant expression. “Life spends quickly at my age… at any age. I hope you will share your story while I’m still around to read it.”
His suggestion bore a hole in her heart. She touched his hand and rubbed his rough knuckles. “You can’t believe your life might end at fifty because your father’s did. Would you want me to believe my life will end at thirty-four because Mother’s did? I’m past twenty now, so that doesn’t leave me much time.”
“No, no, sweet girl.” He patted her arm. “I only meant that life is brief. You are wonderful with the children. I can’t imagine what I would have done these past few years without you. Your mother always said you were a natural storyteller and a gifted writer. As a father, I want to see you use your God-given talents. And I hope to see it in my lifetime, however long or short that might be.”
Though his words were meant to encourage, the sting of guilt was rising in her throat. “I am using my talent. I write every day.”
He lifted a hand, halting her defense. “You are hiding your light under a bushel. If God gave you a message to share through story, share it.”
“I feel ill even thinking of others reading my work.”
He pressed his lips together and nodded once as if he understood more about her than she did. “Graveyards are full of unshared talent. Imagine what a blessing it would be to the people of this village to have a fresh story to read, for the generations to come to have more stories to study, for that one person who needs your words someday. Write the story with the message God gave you. Trust Him with the rest.”
He stood and slid his chair beneath the table’s edge. As he passed behind her, he kissed the top of her head. “Goodnight, sweet Hannah.”
The floorboards creaked softly as he stepped into his bedroom and closed the door. Hannah lowered her hands to her lap. She’d never imagined others being blessed by reading her story, only her being embarrassed—nay, terrified—to think of anyone but Olivia knowing what scenes played out in her imagination.
Wasn’t a mind created to be private? Couldn’t a writer express herself for the sake of expression and not for exposure?
Despite her objections, her father’s words took root. Many times she’d wished for a new book to read, a new story to get lost in after her mother’s death—not immediately after but months later when the neighbors had stopped checking in and everyone else’s grief had subsided.
She didn’t know of any other writers in the village. If she was the only one and God had truly given her a gift that should be shared, she wouldn’t want to be guilty of taking her talent to the grave.
But the story wasn’t finished, not in its present state. She had a few ideas of where it needed to be changed. Still, something was lacking. Even if she wrote a story that would be a light for someone someday, she needed inspiration and time… and paper.
Her father wanted to read the story in his lifetime and had mentioned his fiftieth birthday. What if she finished the story and gave him a copy on his birthday? No, that would be impossible. The story needed more work than she could do in four months, especially with the way her inspiration had stalled.
Her father was the only person alive who knew about her story but hadn’t read it. She hadn’t allowed him. Why not? He could be trusted. He wouldn’t mock her if he didn’t like the story.
If he wanted to read her story, she would grant him permission… more than permission. Somehow, someway, she would finish it in time to give him a copy on his birthday.
“Write the story with the message God gave you,” she repeated her father’s words on a whisper. “Trust Him with the rest.”
Chapter Four
Henry dropped a wrapped biscuit into his bag then looped the satchel’s strap over his shoulder as he left home for the print shop. Bright morning rays pierced between the gray leaf trees on his parents’ property. A warm wind blew in from the nearby ocean, filling the late spring air with its salty scent.
He passed beneath the clothesline where his mother was already hanging the laundry. “Goodbye, Mother.”
“Will you be home for supper this evening?” Priscilla Roberts asked him. Strands of brown and gray escaped her loose bun of hair and danced in the breeze.
He kept walking but glanced at her over his shoulder. “Yes. Then we have an elders’ meeting tonight.”
“A very important meeting, I hear.” She smiled, warming his heart. “I’m boiling crab for supper. Your favorite.”
In twenty-six years, his mother had never failed to prepare her children’s choice meal to mark special occasions. If the elders approved his father’s request to make printing a village-supported trade, tonight’s meeting would not be simply a special occasion, it would be a historic event. The elders had never agreed on a village matter the same night it was presented.
He dodged a row of hanging socks at the end of the clothesline. “I look forward to dinner.”
As he walked between the southern side of his family’s house and the barn, weeds brushed his trouser cuffs. Simon needed to cut the grass soon, or their father. Regardless, it wouldn’t be his chore anymore if he were going to work full time at the press. The thought brought a sense of relief, like when a sore throat finally went away.
Domestic chores squeezed the breath out of a thinking man. If he owned the place, he might feel differently. The village elders took pride in keeping their farms pleasant and productive, as the women did their homes, which explained the sighs and complaints of his sisters when they had come of age; it wasn’t their kitchen, so they tired of cleaning it. Just as this wasn’t his yard, so he tired of mowing it.
As a contented bachelor with a village-supported occupation, he would never have to worry about such things. His days would be spent printing and binding books; the men in the village would build him a cabin or add living quarters to the print shop. He would select what he needed from the weekly market, barter private orders of books for small luxuries, and go fishing in between.
The status quo of farming and family life would never have a hold on him. He’d never lose another finger raising a barn again.
He ambled along the road into the village, passing house after house that he’d helped build
when they settled the area years ago. Since then, Gabe McIntosh and his father had built bigger homes for all the families. Tradesmen like his father had turned old cabins into workshops. Reverend Colburn had established a church, and Olivia Owens—now Olivia McIntosh—had started a school. And all the settlers came together every Saturday morning on the sandy lot next to the school to trade their produce and wares. Soon, he’d have a batch of six leather-bound copies of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, two for the library and four to trade.
Stepping inside the dark print shop, he propped the door open to receive as much morning sunlight as possible. The scents of ink and copper greeted him. He lowered his satchel to the floor between the press and the far wall then paused by the window.
Next door, the stone library stood cold and empty, begging to be filled with books. It would be his duty if all went well at the elders’ meeting tonight.
A light knock on the open door disrupted his quiet. Hannah Vestal, the neighbor girl from the property north of his parents’ farm, dithered in the doorway. She held a basket full of candles. “Excuse me, will Mr. Roberts be here soon?”
“My father is working at home today.”
“Oh.” Her gaze lowered to the candles. “I was hoping to trade these for paper?”
Henry studied her for a moment, struck by the oddity of seeing Hannah Vestal somewhere other than church. The years of seclusion since her mother’s death made her a mystery to him. She must be a slave to her siblings’ upbringing. Though demure in appearance, something about her high cheekbones and dark lashes veiled innate nobility, shirking the impression of servitude.
The eldest of the Vestal children had grown into an attractive woman. Still, Henry would always see her as the mournful teen weeping over her mother’s fresh grave years ago. He had left Mrs. Vestal’s funeral and gone home to weep that day too, grieving the loss as everyone in the settlement had. The only way he’d overcome it was by sketching Mrs. Vestal’s portrait, not the way she had looked in those final months of life, but the way she looked when the group lived in Virginia. She’d been strong, majestic almost, with the same high cheekbones as the woman standing before him now.
The Uncharted Beginnings Series Box Set Page 45