Remembering the pain, his heart stirred with an overwhelming desire to help Hannah in any way he could. He waved his good hand at the rolls of paper beside a cut table at the back of the shop. “I have plenty of paper and happen to need candles.”
She didn’t immediately respond. Had she not heard him or not understood his reply? He rounded the press and stopped at the worktable. “On cloudy days, it’s almost too dark in here to work.”
A slow smile graced her rosy lips. “Excellent, or rather, not that your workshop is dim, but I mean it is excellent that you should need candles.” Her cheeks flushed, matching her pink lips. “For me, anyway, because I have two dozen here to trade for paper.”
He reached into the basket and drew out a pair of tapers, which were still attached at the wick. “That’s a lot of candles to trade for paper. I’ll take four. Save the rest to trade at the market.”
Her smile vanished. She took a half step closer and whispered. “I need quite a lot of paper.”
The secretive manner of her voice over something as trivial as trading candles for paper almost made him laugh. He held it back not wanting to mock such a delicate creature. Leaning down to whisper too, he asked. “How much paper?”
“Two hundred sheets.”
“You’re right. That is quite a lot.” He stood straight and grinned at her. “Why are we whispering?”
The light shining through the doorway highlighted the golden flecks in her brown eyes. She leveled her glowing gaze on him, bucking all notion of fragility. “I prefer to keep my business affairs private. If you aren’t accustomed to trading discretely, I can trade with your father. He never questions me.”
He laced his voice with sarcasm. “Pardon my insensitivity. The secrecy you employ over a trade for paper piqued my curiosity.”
The punch of his humor seemed as lost on her as it was on any woman. She bowed her regal neck a degree as if deigning to accept his apology. “No harm done.”
Perhaps she was being sarcastic too. If he knew her more, he’d be able to read her intentions or at least be able to provoke her and then read her reaction. Considering her simple life, it seemed more likely she was taking him at his word. A twinge of guilt tightened his chest.
What was it about women that always put him on guard? He gave her unimposing stature a quick study. She was too small to be threatening, so his defensiveness must be unwarranted. He cleared the cynicism from his throat. “I take great care in stocking and cutting my paper and like to be assured it will go to good use.” He returned the taper candles to her basket and rested both palms on the worktable. “Why do you need so much paper?”
Her gaze darted around the print shop. “I’d rather… I’d rather not say.”
The noblewoman was gone and the homebody was back. Had he flustered her by being male or did she need the paper for a truly private endeavor? Either way, there was something amusing about pressing her further. “Did your sisters lose their school slates?”
“No.”
“Are you papering your walls?”
She squared her shoulders and hiked the basket up to her chest. “Will you trade with me or not?”
“You don’t have enough candles to trade for two hundred sheets of paper.”
She plunked her basket on the press table, her assertiveness ignited. “How much paper will you give me for all of these?”
The force in her voice fueled his urge to vex her for the pleasure of watching her stir. However, knowing the woman before him encased a mournful girl who needed something he had to offer, he decided against jesting and drew several candles out of the basket.
The smooth candles were solid with tightly woven wicks, and he needed them. He removed all but four of the candles, unable to take everything she had. “I will accept these for twenty sheets of paper.”
“But I need two hundred sheets.”
She didn’t need that much paper. Something was amiss. He pointed at the tall rolls of paper filling a wide bin beside the cut table in the back corner of the room. “Each of those rolls contains only twelve sheets of paper.” When her eyes widened, he asked, “Are you certain you require two hundred sheets?”
“Oh, no.” A burst of laughter broke her regality. She pressed her hand to her middle. “I’m sorry. No wonder you looked confused. I need two hundred pages—as in sheets of writing paper.” She drew a rectangle in the air. “About this size.”
Delighted by her laughter, his eyes refused to look away as he pulled a paper roll from the bin and opened it on the cut table. Little lines curved around her mouth when she laughed, almost like dimples but more stately.
The smile lines faded along with her laughter, and he wanted to see them again. The yearning pressed him to say something humorous, anything to make her laugh again, but his mind went as blank as the paper he was unrolling. He stood open-jawed as if every ounce of his intelligence had been doused by her song-like laughter.
His half-hand lost what little strength it had, and he fumbled with the paper roll. For a moment time seemed to freeze. Her gaze darted to his scars, and pity changed her expression. He would rather receive disgust than pity. Wanting neither from her, he fought to appear composed. “Yes, well, I will trade you the candles for writing paper… two hundred pages. About six inches by nine then?”
She nodded. “Sounds right. I’ve never measured. Your father always cut the pages for me.”
“We get eight pages of six by nine per sheet.” He tried to focus on the paper, though her gaze had yet to leave his hand. “So you only need twenty-five sheets, not two hundred.”
She pointed at the door. “Should I come back for it tomorrow?”
“No, unless you’re in a rush. It will only take me a few minutes.”
“Very well.” She folded her hands and glanced about the room. “This was the Fosters’ cabin before it was your father’s print shop, wasn’t it?”
“It was.”
“Do you know if Mr. Foster will play his violin at the spring dance this year?”
“I haven’t heard.” He looked up from the paper to study her form as she ambled to the letterpress. “Will you be at the dance?”
“I’m a chaperone.”
“What are you going to write?”
“At the dance?”
“No, on this paper.”
She snapped her face toward him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Most people order writing paper a dozen pages at a time. Even the reverend only orders twice that, and he writes a sermon every week.” He marked the pages for cutting but kept eyeing her. “Why do you need two hundred pages?”
“I like to stay well stocked.”
“This should last you a lifetime.”
She mumbled, “I will use it up in four months.”
“You must be writing a book.”
“Pardon?”
“To use two hundred pages in four months, you must be writing a book. Is it a work of fiction? A love story, perhaps?”
“Never you mind.” Her regal chin lifted. She silently inspected the rows of letters he’d set in the press last night. The only sound came from the swish of the cutting blade through the paper.
He wanted to push her for answers, but she turned her face away. Her profile looked as it had at the gravesite all those years ago. This woman was not to be pushed or teased. It was a shame though as something about her stirred a longing in his soul.
Chapter Five
Hannah eyed the shelf of gray clouds moving in from the ocean as she plucked the clothespins off the dried laundry. The humid air carried the fresh scent of coming rain. The children would be home from school any minute, and she’d yet to create a plot thread reconciling Adeline’s desire to return to her homeland and her love for Aric. Her story made little sense.
Hannah stared into her full laundry basket. Why would a woman who had found true love with a brave prince suddenly want to be elsewhere? The answer eluded her.
Why had she thought she could finish the
story in four months?
She pulled a piece of folded notepaper out of her pocket and opened it. Crowded words almost too small to read filled the page, yet she had two hundred blank pages in her desk drawer waiting for her to fill them with inspired prose. At this rate, the paper would remain as blank as it was when Henry had cut it this morning.
Two hundred pages not sheets, he’d said.
At least he’d been kind about her blunder. He had looked at her oddly while he cut the pages—almost as though he was embarrassed by something. But then he’d questioned her about what she was writing. Why did he think he had the authority to say how the paper could be used?
Before she could dismiss Henry, she thought of Aric. Perhaps he too would have assertive qualities. He was a prince and had been raised in a privileged lifestyle, so it would make sense if he had strong opinions and forced them on others. Was that assertiveness, though, or simply arrogance? She would have to think about it more to apply it to Prince Aric, but as for Henry Roberts, she couldn’t say. She barely knew the man, but he seemed to possess both assertiveness and arrogance in abundance.
Prince Aric needed more complexities added to his personality, and Henry Roberts might provide examples. She glanced toward the Roberts’ property. An acre of blooming apple trees stood between her and the woods that separated their families’ farms. He lived next door, yet she only saw him in passing at church on Sundays. Did Henry’s heart have as many scars as his left hand?
She started to make a note on her page when the barn door slammed shut across the yard. A moment later, David walked past the clothesline and swiped the page from her hand. He scowled at her. “Why are you always scribbling? Shouldn’t you be working?”
“Give that back!” she demanded of her brother.
He flipped her notepaper around to read it then stopped and crinkled his brow. “This is gibberish.”
She reached for the page, but he moved away too quickly. Every muscle in her body wanted to jump at him and fight to get her private page out of his dirty hands. She would have fought him when they were children. That was probably the reaction he was hoping for. Though David was two years her junior, he was a foot taller than her and a grown man. She wasn’t a child anymore either and hadn’t been for a long time.
She returned her attention to the clothesline, pretending not to care that he was looking at her private notes. “Perhaps if you had finished school, you would be able to read my gibberish.”
He squinted at the page. “Prince? You don’t still write your little fairy tales, do you?”
She hadn’t realized he knew anything about her stories. Her cheeks burned. “Mind you own business!”
David held the page out to her, pinching its corner as if it were covered in bird dung. “No wonder you always look tired. Maybe if you put away your childish love stories, you could focus on your housework.”
She snatched the paper from him and shoved it into her apron. The sound of a short tear came from her pocket, rousing the ever-present ache of disappointment. “Go away, David. Don’t you have work to do?”
“I could ask you the same. You promised Mother you would take care of the house, remember?”
Before she could form a bold retort, Christopher’s voice boomed from behind them. “Leave her alone.”
She glowered at David until he walked away, then she unpinned the last of the laundry and hefted the basket to the house. “Thank you, Father.”
Christopher opened the mudroom door for her. “A storm is coming.”
Her four youngest siblings strode toward the orchard from the road, books in their arms and empty lunch pails swinging from their wrists. Hannah grinned at her father. “Are you speaking of the rain clouds or of them?”
He chuckled then gazed at the road and paused abruptly. “Oh. Olivia is with them.”
“She is coming to help Doris with the decorations for the spring dance.”
“Very well.” His eyes scanned the sky as he left the stoop. “The clouds are tall. The rain will pass as quickly as it comes. Give Olivia my best. I need to do some work in the barn.”
The back door blew closed behind Hannah. She stood in the mudroom, peering through the window. Her father waved jovially at the children and raised his hat to Olivia as he rushed toward the barn. He always seemed in a hurry to hide himself when Olivia came around.
A chorus of thuds shook the mudroom as the children scuttled onto the stoop. Hannah opened the door for them. “Hello Minnie, Ida,” she greeted the twins as they passed. “Wade, shoes off.”
Doris dashed past her. “Do we have a spare basket? I’m off to collect flowers, and Mrs. McIntosh is going to show me how to dry them so they will be perfect for the spring dance decorations.”
“Hello to you too,” Hannah said to Doris’s back as her sister raced to their bedroom to look for a basket.
Hannah turned to greet Olivia. The giddy thrill of a friend’s presence in her home made her clasp her hands over her heart. “Come in, come in. I’m so glad you’re here!”
Olivia stepped inside, beaming. She smoothed back windswept strands of black hair as she ascended the steps into the kitchen. “Is this a good time? Doris said she told you I would visit today.” She glanced around as if making sure none of the children were within earshot then drew a stack of papers from her satchel. “I didn’t only come to help with the decorations. I finished reading the pages you left with me last week. I thought we might go over my notes while Doris is out gathering flowers.”
Hannah accepted the pages and promptly folded them in half so no one would see if they came into the room. Before she could reply, Doris sprang from the bedroom still wearing her bonnet, ran through the kitchen and into the parlor, and popped back into the kitchen, holding up a sea grass basket by its arched handle. “I found one!”
“Great,” Olivia said. “Now remember to keep as much stem with the flowers as possible.”
“Yes, Mrs. McIntosh.” Doris smiled. Her eyes turned to Hannah. “I’ll be in the meadow.”
“Rain is coming.”
“I won’t be long.”
The twins followed Doris outside, and Wade laced up his work boots to go start his barn chores. The folded pages warmed in Hannah’s fingers as she waited for her brother to leave. She wanted to hear what Olivia thought of her evolving story. More than that, she wanted to tell Olivia her new goal. Though eager to begin their conversation, she wasn’t about to give her youngest brother a hint of her private life, especially after the way David had behaved.
She motioned to the table for Olivia to take a seat. “Care for a cup of tea?”
“Only water for me, thanks.”
Hannah set a covered plate on the table and peeled back a tea towel. “How about a sweet roll?”
Olivia’s thin black eyebrows rose. “Icing? How delicious!” She selected one from the basket, took a bite, and hummed. “Thank heavens for sugar beets.”
Hannah filled two cups with water and placed them on the table. She sat adjacent Olivia and unfolded her pages. A slight tremble vibrated Hannah’s fingertips, so she tucked one hand into her lap. “Before we begin, I need to tell you something… to ask you something… your opinion about something.”
Olivia leaned forward. “What is it?”
“My father knows I write. He’s known about my story for years, and he wants to read it.”
“Will you let him?”
Hannah pulled the scrunched notepaper from her apron pocket. She laid it on the table and smoothed out the wrinkles that had formed when David had teased her with it outside. If someone had mocked her about her notes, she dare not imagine what they would do with her story. “Not yet. I want it to be perfect first.”
Olivia tilted her head a degree. “Will you let him read it once it’s done?”
“Yes, but only because he asked. It seemed important to him. He spoke of getting older and not wanting to see me hide my talent. What do you think?”
“It’s your decision.�
�
“No, I mean, do you think my story will ever be good enough for someone else to read it?”
Olivia touched her hand. “I think it’s good enough now. Overall, it just needs some polishing and a satisfying ending. You are the one who isn’t pleased with it. Look through those pages and find my notes.”
Hannah scanned the first page and flipped to the second then the third. The only marks on the page were hers. She continued searching for any of Olivia’s usual editing marks but found none. “You didn’t find any flaws in the entire chapter?”
Olivia shook her head and a silky strand of black hair escaped her chignon. “Your writing has matured. You have developed your characters beautifully. I was fascinated by the new plot you created for Adeline, and I’m eager to read the rest.”
A strange sense of accomplishment mixed with terror gurgled inside her. “The rest,” she repeated on a whisper.
“Do you know where the story is going now?”
She shook her head. “Not exactly.”
“It’s time to let your imagination take over. Use the talent God gave you.”
“That’s what my father said.”
Olivia nodded. “He’s right. You wanted my opinion. I believe you should finish your story and share it.”
She held up a hand. “Only with my father for his birthday. I don’t want anyone else to see it or even to know I write.”
“When is his birthday?”
“In four months.” She tapped her fingers on the papers. “Do you think I can finish in time?”
“Sure.”
“And have time to make a copy for his gift?”
Olivia’s eyes widened.
“What? You think that’s impossible, don’t you?”
“No, it’s possible, but I have another idea.” A mischievous grin made her dark eyes sparkle. “You should ask Henry Roberts to print and bind your story.”
Hannah’s stomach recoiled. “Like a book?”
The Uncharted Beginnings Series Box Set Page 46